


For Keeps

by liketheroad



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 58,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketheroad/pseuds/liketheroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees Ryan, and Brendon knows that Ryan would be like one of those t-shirts that's been washed way too many times, so worn-through it's almost translucent, with a few real holes showing through to skin, but soft. Soft and just the perfect fit, clinging to your skin in all the right places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As the youngest of five children, Brendon Urie understands about hand-me-downs. In all his life he's never worn anything - except for underwear - that hadn't been worn by at least one of his brothers, or, more often that not because of his size, one of his sisters. In the seventh grade he taught himself to sew so he could make alterations to the clothes he was expected to wear as long as they "basically" fit or "did the job." It isn't that his family's poor exactly, but most of their money goes to the church, and Brendon grew up knowing not to ask for things he didn't need, and even then, it was best to wait patiently and hope that someone noticed.

It's not even so bad really, he is a pretty awesome seamstress-tailor person by the age of sixteen and he totally bedazzled some of the clothes he smuggles out to wear at school, because he gets shoved around and called a faggot anyway. He can at least be sparkly while they're saying it.

The other thing that's good about a lifetime of hand-me-downs is that it's really given Brendon an eye for hidden treasures. He's gotten pretty hawk-like about it, constantly watching his siblings out of the corner of his eye, waiting for signs the shirts or books or shoes he's had his eyes on are starting to get a little worn, starting to fit wrong, and then he can make his move. Sometimes his parents notice first, and arm-fulls of clothes get exchanged around on the hallway of their house, but by the time Brendon's a teenager most of the others' growing is done, so he has to be a lot more mercenary and crafty about it.

It's a valuable skill, is the thing, and ultimately, it's what makes Brendon notice Ryan.

He sees Ryan in his classes, always sitting in the front seat of whatever corner of the room is closest to the door. He sees when Ryan listens in class like he's barely breathing, he's concentrating so hard, and he sees the times when Ryan is completely absorbed in a book carefully hidden behind one of his class textbooks. He sees Ryan having lunch with a different set of people every couple months, sometimes weeks; he sees the careful, guarded look behind Ryan's flat, empty smiles.

He sees Ryan biking away from school everyday and he sees Ryan hunched against the bike racks every morning, eating a granola bar and staring up at the sky.

He sees Ryan scribbling in notebooks and closing his eyes and curling his fists whenever someone accidentally brushes against him in the halls, sees him coil up and struggle to hold himself there, tension making his back stiff.

He sees Ryan with a busted lip and a broken hand. He sees Ryan come out of the guys; bathroom with a wild, defiant look in his face and blood in his hair.

He sees Ryan,and Brendon knows that Ryan would be like one of those t-shirts that's been washed way too many times, so worn-through it's almost translucent, with a few real holes showing through to skin, but soft. Soft and just the perfect fit, clinging to your skin in all the right places.

He sees Ryan and thinks Ryan looks like this pair of jeans that nobody really wanted, passed down through both of this brothers, abandoned in a closet for almost a year and then finally dumped on the floor one night for him to make use of after he mentioned kind of needing new jeans earlier that night at the dinner table. Because they hadn't really liked them, the jeans had been worn for rougher things; they were ripped at at the cuffs from bike spokes and there were paint splatters from when his oldest brother had repainted his room.

But Brendon had patched over the paint with an old paisley button-up that didn't stretch over his shoulders anymore, and he'd needed to re-cuff the bottoms anyway because they were too long. He took the legs in a bit too, making them tighter, and just because he wanted to he put a rhinestone at the center of both back pockets. He could even wear them out of the house on his way to school, as long as his shirt was long enough to cover it, and he'd always either tuck it in or change once he arrived.

They were totally his favorite pair now.

So Brendon is smart like that; he knows when not to pass off an opportunity just cause it comes to him a little faded and under-appreciated.

Not that he's gonna like... explain it to Ryan like that, so instead he just plunks himself down beside Ryan one day when he notices Ryan is between... not friends, but well. When the space beside him is currently without any particular occupants.

Brendon doesn't say anything, just sits down and starts eating his lunch. Ryan looks at him for a second, just out of the corner of his eye, but then he goes back to eating his own food. Carrot sticks and peanut butter. Brendon remains quiet, but silently approves.

Brendon waits a week of silent lunches before saying, "I'm Brendon," in between a bite of sandwich and a gulp of chocolate milk.

Ryan looks at him again, but doesn't respond.

Another week goes by and Brendon says, "Hey man, you want one of these?" He's got homemade cookies today, ones his sister made, so there are lots of extra chocolate chips. They're delicious.

Ryan looks at him, not the cookie, "You know what my name is. We're in all the same classes."

Brendon shrugs and waves the cookie invitingly. "Sure dude, but do you want a cookie? You will not be disappointed, they're seriously awesome."

Ryan narrows his eyes a little. "You know my name. How come you don't call me by it." There's not enough inflection in his tone to really call it a question, it comes out sounding more like he's daring Brendon to answer.

Brendon could say, "I'm just the kind of person who likes to call people dude, dude." But instead he tells the truth, "You haven't told me it yet. Until you do I have to guess it's cause you don't want me to know it."

Ryan glares at him and Brendon stares back. It's good he's decided to go the whole "honesty" route with Ryan. The guy has a seriously penetrating stare.

Ryan blinks first. He takes the cookie.

They don't say another word to each other that lunch, but at the end day, as they're filing out of the building, Ryan turns over his shoulder to Brendon and says, "Ryan. My name is Ryan."

Brendon nods, and allows himself to smile, just a little. "Okay, Ryan, I'll see you tomorrow."

Ryan doesn't smile, but for half a second something changes in his eyes. "Yeah. See you tomorrow, Brendon."

\---

The thing about Brendon that Ryan doesn't get yet is that Brendon keeps things. Maybe it's because he's the youngest, and there's never been anyone left to hand stuff down to, but Brendon doesn't throw stuff out. Ever.

When clothes rip beyond repair, or stop fitting, or get threadbare enough that his mom yells at him when she sees him in them, he always finds something else to do with them. He makes patches out of his favorite shirts, sometimes to cover real holes or stains, sometimes cut into patterns he arranges up the leg of his jeans, or on his backpack. There are stars cut out of a red shirt that he put on the shoulders of his jacket, and his favorite shirt is a purple one he got from his sister that he put a sloppily cut-out green heart onto.

Ryan almost smiles at Brendon the day he wears it for the first time, which Brendon is completely willing to admit is why it's his favorite.

One almost-smile aside, Ryan seems to have absolutely no opinion of Brendon and his continued presence at Ryan's side at all lunches and most walks from one class to another. He doesn't seem to mind having Brendon around, he just appears calmly indifferent. Sometimes Brendon catches Ryan looking at him a little sharply, but as soon as Brendon catches his eyes Ryan turns back to looking cool and composed.

Over two months into their... whatever it is (Brendon kind of thinks of it as a rescue mission, only he isn't entirely sure which one of them he thinks he's going to end up saving and that's always where the thoughts get muddled in his head) Ryan misses a couple days of school.

Brendon reminds himself that this happens sometimes, that you don't even have to know who he is to know that Ryan Ross misses school a lot and comes back with weird injuries and an even tighter set in his shoulders. But see, because he totally knows that second part too, it's kind of impossible not to freak out the entire time.

He almost goes to Ryan's house, like almost breaks into the secretary's office and finds Ryan's file and his address so he can just go there, just to see, but even while he is concocting this admittedly ridiculous plan, Ryan shows up, late for class, but actually there.

Brendon gives himself 30 seconds to scream with relief on the inside while grinning like a buffoon on the outside before making his face blank as he looks over at Ryan, doing his best to make it look like he's not checking Ryan over for injuries while he does just that. There's a gash across Ryan's left eyebrow, a cut just shy of deep enough to need stitches, and that's all Brendon can see. That's not all that's there, but that's all Brendon can see.

He smiles at Ryan cause he can't do anything else, not from across the room and probably not even if he wasn't, but Ryan inclines his head, just for a second, and Brendon will take what he can get. He'll take whatever Ryan is willing to give.

Class seems excruciatingly long, unforgivably so, but finally it ends and Ryan hangs back, which he never does, and waits until everyone else has left the classroom before flicking his eyes over to Brendon. Brendon meets Ryan's eyes and in a flash Brendon swears he sees something like resignation, something like regret, in Ryan's eyes, and then he's turning away and walking out of the room.

Brendon gathers up his books and races after Ryan, but slows down again as soon as he catches up, giving Ryan room.

He hovers a few feet away as Ryan puts his books away in his locker, ignoring Brendon. As he reaches up to grab his Calc textbook Ryan suddenly hisses in pain and folds in on himself. Ryan stays hunched and Brendon takes a quick, involuntary step closer.

He's still a good foot and a half away but Ryan hisses, "Just cause I told you my fucking name doesn't mean you can fucking touch me."

Brendon blinks, surprised, but holds up his hands in reassurance, "I wasn't going to."

The thought never occurred to him. Touches to Brendon mean punishments or the hugs that come afterwards, the ones that come with his father saying, "I don't want to have to do that again, Brendon. I hope you've learned your lesson."

He can't fully imagine what touches mean to Ryan, but Brendon certainly isn't going to be someone who adds to the list. Not without permission, not unless Ryan asks.

Ryan looks surprised, and Brendon is guessing Ryan's surprised because he actually believes him. Telling Ryan the truth continues to be Brendon's best friend.

Ryan even offers Brendon a careful, "Oh."

Brendon puts his hands down and takes a step back, just cause Ryan looks like he needs it.

They stand there like that, Ryan watching Brendon with careful, cool defiance, daring him to say the wrong thing, to say whatever he expects Brendon to say that has him ready, poised on his heels to spin away and never look back. Brendon draws into himself for a second and then lets his eyes flick deliberately over Ryan's cut. Ryan's eyes narrowed just a fraction, but Brendon just shake his head and says, unimpressed, "I've seen worse."

For a second Ryan just continues to stare, but suddenly he flicks his bangs off his face and actually laughs.

It's easily the best sound Brendon has ever heard.

\---

Ryan doesn't exactly warm up after that, but he stops holding himself so stiff whenever Brendon leaves a room. Brendon didn't even realize Ryan was doing it until he stops, but he can see it now, in the way that Ryan sometimes even lets his eyes follow Brendon for a second before he's out of sight, now, so different from the way he'd kept them carefully away from Brendon as he'd left so many times before. He doesn't quite smile, whenever Brendon comes back, when he arrives at a shared class or sits down at lunch, but he never starts eating until Brendon arrives. They have every class together except the last of the morning, and Brendon has his class at the other end of the school, so he always gets there after Ryan until the Wednesday his class lets out early, something off with the clocks, and Brendon beats Ryan to their table.

He's got his food spread out before him but he's not eating, waiting patiently, good like Ryan is. He's flipping through a book, just passing the time, and he actually hears it when Ryan stutters to a stop in front of the table.

He looks unreasonably shocked to see Brendon there. He's holding his books in front of his chest.

Brendon wonders how many careless, foolish people have simply forgotten about Ryan when he wasn't there, right in front of them waiting to remind them.

Brendon gives Ryan a small, simple smile. "I've got peanut butter and cheese today, you want half?" He holds up his sandwich enticingly.

Ryan makes a disgusted face and Brendon tries to moderate his grin.

"You practicing your super-speed today?" Ryan asks, oh-so casually.

Brendon wants to roll his eyes, so damn fond, but he can't. Careful. Always careful.

Instead he shrugs, "I think someone was messing with the clocks. Or they're just getting ahead in that room." He shakes his head. "The world is an imperfect place."

Ryan cracks what passes, most days, for his realest smile, "Coming apart at the seams."

He takes half of Brendon's sandwich without having to be offered again.

\---

The only thing Brendon likes about his school, other than Ryan and coming in a distinct second, is that it actually has a decent music program. It's not funded much better than any other, but they have a choir director whose dedication borders on mania, and he actually cares about getting kids to sing, getting them to "find their voice." It's an expression he uses a lot, and that some kids snigger at, but Brendon can't help be won over by Mr. Way's endless enthusiasm, his seemingly boundless sincerity.

Lots of kids are in the normal choir, it's considered a fairly easy credit, but you have to try out for jazz choir. Normally you have to be a senior or a junior to get in, but that November, prepping for the Christmas concert, Brendon tries out anyway, and he actually makes it. Mr. Way beams at him once he finishes singing, and tells him he has a strong voice, a confident voice.

Brendon just shrugs and says, "Well, I've always been in ward choir."

Mr. Way just smiles and says, "That sometimes helps."

They have extra practices, twice a week after school, and while he's surprised by the development, Ryan actually notices. Even more surprising, Ryan notices and calls Brendon on it.

"You in some kind of trouble I don't know about?" He keeps his voice light. As if that isn't an alarm bell on its own.

Brendon hides a smile at himself for thinking he's getting so good at this. Maybe he's not so smart, maybe Ryan's just finally letting him in a little.

Either way, it's pretty hard to keep his face mostly neutral when he says, "Youthful delinquency, you know how it goes."

Ryan looks at him sharply, his hand flutters for a second, but he doesn't raise it anywhere near Brendon.

Now Brendon does let himself smile, "Jazz choir."

Ryan's eyes widen in surprise this time, not suspicion. "Really?"

Brendon nods. "It's not a big deal. I mean, it's really fun, but," he shrugs, "I know it's kind of a nerdy thing to do." Not that he actually expects Ryan to judge, not about something like that. There hasn't a time yet Ryan hasn't had a new book somewhere on his person when Brendon saw him.

Ryan's eyes narrow up, back to his more typical calculating stare.

Brendon tries to figure out what he's thinking, get to the answer before Ryan has to decide if he's willing to risk the question, but Ryan's more decisive than usual, "Can I come watch?"

To hell with discretion, Brendon beams so bright they can probably see it from space.

\---

He has a solo to work on that practice, Imagine, and Mr. Way keeps him about twenty minutes after normal practice ends, going over things together. Brendon wasn't sure he'd be able to manage it, with Ryan there, but he loses himself in the music like always, listening only to Mr. Way's instructions and the sounds he's trying to get out of his voice.

When they finally decide to call it a day, Brendon walks to the back of the room to collect his bag, his jacket, and Ryan. Ryan is sitting alarmingly still in his seat, but his eyes follow all of Brendon's movements.

Brendon grins cheesily and says, "So I'm a total rockstar, right?"

Ryan doesn't say anything, but he stands abruptly and starts to stride out of the room, he jerks his head once, and Brendon takes the command to follow.

Once they're out in the hall Ryan paces in a half circle, never straying more that three feet from Brendon. He waves his hand like he wants to do something with it, but he just can't make himself. Brendon stays where he is, waits Ryan out.

Ryan takes a sudden step forward, reaching out and actually grabbing Brendon's elbow. He doesn't pull on it, or shake it, but he holds on, fingers clamping around tight. Brendon's heart hammers in his chest, shock and something else, but he doesn't move.

"You can sing," Ryan hisses at Brendon, although he doesn't really seem like Brendon's who he's talking to. Not really.

It's different the second time though. Ryan squeezes down, just a little, and when he looks up at Brendon there's a smile on his face, a whole smile, bright and real.

"Brendon, you can sing."

Brendon smiles, and lets himself feel proud, "Dude, I told you I was a frigging rockstar."

Ryan shakes his head, but it doesn't look like he's disagreeing with him.

\---

It takes another week, and then Ryan watches Brendon as he sits down at the table at lunch, careful eyes like they haven't been, not quite so sharp, not for awhile.

Brendon stretches his fingers out in a little wave, "What's up?" He's brave enough to ask that now. Even two weeks ago he wouldn't have been.

Ryan shakes his head, but pushes something into Brendon's hands.

It's a notebook. Brendon's seen Ryan writing it in at least a dozen times. His hands shake a little, but he doesn't open it.

"What's this?"

Ryan's eyes flick back and forth between random points in the cafeteria; he looks like he's shaking too. Brendon almost wants to give it back. But he can see what it took for Ryan to work up the courage to give it to him once.

"Songs," Ryan eventually says, and then immediately shakes his head, "Not real songs. Just... just lyrics. Some guitar parts but not... mostly just words."

"Your words," Brendon says, softly. He wonders if Ryan knows, if he's ever been in a church. If you have to have been to be able to recognize reverence.

The way Ryan looks back at him, Brendon thinks maybe he does know. One way or another.

"I thought." He nods at Brendon slightly. "I can't sing. I can't make them into anything. I thought maybe you'd. You know. Try."

Brendon thinks about reaching over, taking Ryan's long, fluttering fingers into his. Instead he holds on tighter to Ryan's notebook. Onto Ryan's words.

"I can never write anything, myself. But if you want it, I can give you my voice." For all that he's always so careful, he still hasn't quite learned to do anything but be honest with Ryan.

Ryan's hands settle back into his lap, his smile is careful, but there. Real. He says, "I can play guitar a little. I was thinking we could work on some songs. Like, together."

Brendon's hands clench tighter around the binding of the book, "Together it is."

\---

Brendon wants to start right away, and he can tell Ryan does too, but Ryan insists on Brendon taking the night to look over the lyrics.

He looks away from Brendon as he says, "Just so, you know," and then waves his hand vaguely.

Brendon wants to catch it out of the air and squeeze.

Instead he says, "Can't wait."

Ryan looks a little sad, but he almost smiles.

\---

Reading Ryan's words is harder than Brendon expected. He knew he was going to be impressed, and he is. But he's also frightened. There's more in Ryan's head than even Brendon had guessed. More anger, more layers of distrust and confusion. And at the same time, they're so fucking honest. So deeply, starkly raw.

There's a song Brendon can only assume is about Ryan's father, and he can already hear the music, fast and aggressively pop, a dizzying dance to go along with the way the words clench down on your heart.

There's also a song Brendon's pretty sure is about him. There's something like hope and the willingness to want layered deep underneath and scornfully denied by the quick, mocking phrases.

Scavenger comes back again, through the looking glass, back through again,  
Who do you think you see when you're looking through me,

Brendon tries to put the words in his mouth and he ends up crying. He cries for a minute straight and then he makes himself sing the words until they belong to him too. Until he knows how to sing them so they can't hurt either of them anymore.

\---

Ryan is waiting for Brendon the next morning, leaning against the gray brick of the school. His arms are folded loosely against his chest. There's something sorry behind the challenging look in his eyes.

Brendon shifts his backpack on his shoulders, "You put a lot of fucking syllables into single lines," he announces, in lieu of a greeting.

Ryan laughs, surprised. "I'm kind of an asshole like that."

Brendon feels himself smile. "I guess I can probably take it."

Suddenly Ryan's face is still, looking at Brendon seriously, "You're tougher than you think."

The last bit of doubt uncurls in Brendon's chest. "Tough enough for your fifteen-syllable choruses."

Ryan's smile is a little grim, but Brendon is coming to recognize that it just means Ryan is determined, ready.

"Wouldn't have given them to you if you weren't."

\---

They make plans to actually try to work on the songs that day after school, over at Brendon's because his mom will be doing a service project until at least six, and his brothers and sisters will all be at friends' houses.

Ryan is always somehow ready to leave any class before the bell has rang, having evidently mastered the skill of silent bag packing some time ago. He's even slipped into his coat before he's up out of his desk, but he lingers patiently for Brendon, hand on the back of Brendon's chair as he's gathering up his books, taking a step back and watching while Brendon shrugs on his coat.

They smile at each other for a moment, and then walk out of the room together.

They get as far as the bike racks, Brendon in the middle of explaining to Ryan why it is essential that they take a cookie dough break before they start working on the songs, when suddenly from behind them Brendon hears,

"Fucking cocksuckers."

Ryan goes instantly, perfectly still, just for a moment, but then he takes another long stride towards their bikes.

Brendon tells his body to follow, and for a second it complies, but then he hears it again, louder, a different voice adding to the charge, "Faggots."

Brendon was never so good at temper control. He spins around and whoa, there's four of them, big guys he vaguely recognizes as seniors, jocks, fucking living the cliche. They're closer than he expected them to be. Circling.

Ryan is silent, but he's facing them too, having turned as soon as Brendon did.

They're not quite alone on the track, but no one is looking over. They're at the far exit, and almost out of sight, students are passing quickly by.

Brendon remembers why he really fucking hates this school.

Ryan says, "Get the hell out of here, Brendon," and he remembers why he really fucking loves it too.

He shakes his head, "I don't think so."

Ryan takes his eyes off the grinning, looming faces that are standing in front of them now, just shy of blocking their way. His glare is pinching at the corner of his eyes, "Brendon--"

That's as far as he gets, one of the guys starts to laugh, jeers something about Ryan trying to protect his cocksucking little girlfriend - and Jesus Christ, how does that even make sense - and then Brendon is actually lunging forward because apparently he has a fucking death wish and somehow, before he even knows what's happening there's a blur in front of him and Ryan's face is connecting with the punch that was meant for Brendon.

Ryan staggers back into Brendon, and Brendon struggles to hold him up, dead wait for a second before Ryan is pulling himself up, shaking his head, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

"You don't even fucking try and touch him," he snarls, voice so cold they actually take a step back.

Brendon stupidly thinks, that should be the end, but something has come undone inside Ryan, and he launches himself at them, throwing a hard punch right back in the guy's face. There's a stunned pause before Ryan is swarmed - virtually lost from sight behind the four bodies that surround him. Brendon has never been in a fight in his goddamn life, but he does the only thing he can think of, throwing himself into the knot of elbows and fists, trying to find Ryan's hand among the blur. He gets the wind knocked out of him and then he buckles in pain, hit from somewhere he can't place; he hears Ryan shouting his name, and then suddenly it stops. He drops to his knees, falling as soon as the hand that was gripping his jacket lets go.

He opens his eyes and the guys are running way. He coughs and tries to figure out why.

Ryan says his name a few more times, but Brendon can't focus. All he can hear is the ringing in his ears. He vaguely comprehends Ryan shake his head and haul them both over to the side of the school, propping Brendon against it.

He closes his eyes again and breathes, concentrating on the sound of Ryan's steady in- and exhales beside him.

When his head finally stops spinning enough that Brendon is reasonably sure he can move without vomiting, he eases up onto his knees, planning to crawl over and check on Ryan.

But as soon as he moves Ryan makes a wretched sound - like a laugh split in two by a sob - and he says, "So I guess I'll see you around."

Brendon blinks and wavers back a little bit. He tries to say, "Ryan," but gets interrupted.

Ryan's voice is full of careless scorn, "Or not. I don't even fucking care."

At this, Brendon moves. He gets within inches of Ryan and stops, peering into Ryan's eyes. His chest is tight from moving too quickly but he tries to keep his breathing even.

Ryan turns his face away and orders harshly, "Fuck off."

Brendon touches the wall just above Ryan's shoulder, his hand hovering there. He says, "Ryan - what --"

"If you're going," Ryan hisses through his teeth, "then go."

He wants to laugh, wants to slam his palm against the brick above Ryan's head. Instead he says, making sure his voice doesn't waver, "Ryan. I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't care what you do." Ryan insists fiercely.

Brendon shrugs, very carefully. It hurts anyway. "I do. I care."

Something in his voice or his words is enough to make Ryan turn back to look at Brendon. He sounds more sincere than Brendon's ever heard him when Ryan asks, "Why?"

Brendon doesn't know how to say it any other way, and before he got all the hope knocked out of him he was pretty sure Ryan already knew, so he tells the truth again, "Because you're like the pair of shoes I waited two years for my sister to be willing to give up so they could finally be mine. Because I know that if I ever got to have you for myself - if you were actually mine - you'd be just like they were. A perfect fit. Better than new."

Ryan just stares at him.

Brendon tries again, "Because I think if you ever let me, you could be my friend. My first real friend."

"You wouldn't be mine."

Brendon rocks back a little on his knees. He'd thought he was so close.

He opens his eyes when Ryan's hand is somehow on his shoulder. "I didn't mean. I just meant. I've had a friend. I had one once." He looks into Brendon's eyes. "His name was Spencer."

Brendon gets the feeling Ryan hasn't said that name in a long time.

"What happened?"

Ryan shrugs. "He left."

Brendon nods. Of course he did.

Ryan leans in, looking at Brendon sharply. "He didn't even want to. But he left. He had to."

Brendon understands. For Ryan, the result was the same.

"I'm not leaving."

Ryan looks at him hard for another minute, deciding. "Not even when I told you to, apparently," he ultimately concedes.

Brendon smiles sadly. "Not even then."

Ryan shakes his head at him. "Look what it got you."

Brendon looks down at Ryan's hand, still resting firmly on his shoulder. "Yeah. Look what it got me."

\---

Sometime later, Ryan helps him up. When they're standing in front of each other, Brendon wants to laugh. It's that or something worse. Ryan looks pretty fucking bad. His lip is still bleeding, the shoulder of his jacket's been torn. The cut from earlier that month, the one over his eye, has opened up again, his bangs, falling over his eye, are soaking up the blood.

From the look in Ryan's eyes, Brendon is guessing he doesn't look much better. He reaches up to touch his face but Ryan's hand gets there first, gently smoothing the hair over Brendon's forehead. He says, almost too quiet to hear, "Come on. I'll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up."

Brendon's frankly doubtful about his ability to operate his bike right now, and Ryan just shakes his head. "We'll walk. I'd take you on mine but... I think I've done enough damage for one day."

Brendon reaches out, touching Ryan's shoulder. He's pretty sure he's allowed now. Ryan doesn't pull away, doesn't even flinch. He just regards Brendon placidly.

Brendon just says, "Hey. No."

Ryan nods slightly, seeming to accept it.

They walk.

After two blocks, Ryan hooks his elbow with Brendon's, securing himself at Brendon's side. He seems to be wishing he could do that and walk in front of Brendon all at the same time. Brendon keeps step with him, not letting Ryan take the few protective inches he clearly wants to. Ryan makes a frustrated noise and glares at Brendon disapprovingly.

Brendon bites back a grin.

\---

Ryan makes him wait outside, in the lobby of his building. He looks fucking furious about having to do it, but whatever he's worried about in there wins out over unknown fears of what might happen to Brendon alone in the hallway.

He says, "Stay right there. I'll come get you in a sec."

Brendon nods. "Right here."

Ryan points a stern finger for a moment and Brendon smiles for him. Ryan shakes his head but smiles back.

He disappears into the apartment, stays in there for less than a minute, then emerges, waving Brendon in through the door. Brendon enters and Ryan locks the deadbolt behind them.

He looks around the apartment while Ryan is busy with the lock. It's cleaner than he expected, more sparse. It doesn't feel like Ryan. Brendon wonders if his room'll be different. He wonders if he'll get in there today. How far Ryan will be willing to take him.

Ryan touches his hand, gently calling Brendon back into himself. He says, "Come on, bathroom's this way."

It still hurts to walk, so Brendon follows gingerly. Ryan sits him down on the side of the tub, after layering it with two towels. Brendon watches him rummage in a cupboard, pulling out what basically amounts to a homegrown first-aide kit. Bandages, disinfectant, gauze.

Brendon can see himself in the mirror now, and he watches his face, white and frightened reflecting back at him.

Ryan eases off Brendon's jacket and lifts up his shirt. Brendon hisses in pain, Ryan makes a soft, soothing noise.

"Just bruised," he says, regarding Brendon's chest.

Brendon nods. "Okay."

Ryan says, "Your hands though," and starts dabbing a cotton swab over Brendon's fingers. He hadn't noticed his knuckles were bloody.

Ryan is careful, thorough. Brendon is not surprised.

When he's done, Ryan leans back at looks Brendon over. "You might still have to make up a story. For your parents." He looks frustrated with himself, like he should have been able to make the wounds disappear completely.

Brendon says, "They know people pick on me. It won't be a big deal." As long as he assures them he didn't start it, didn't fight back. It'll probably be fine.

Ryan puts his hand over Brendon's knee and squeezes. Then he says, "Think you can help me with my face?"

Brendon's heart hammers in his chest, but he keeps his hands steady as soaks the washcloth, taking it up to Ryan's face, carefully, so carefully, washing away all the blood.

Ryan sits perfectly still, and lets him.

\---

Brendon's whole body hurts, is the thing, and he feels his head start to get heavy. He just looks at Ryan because he doesn't know how to ask, and Ryan chews on his lip, just teasing with the edge of where it's split open.

Finally he says, "You should probably lie down for a bit," and takes Brendon's hand, tugging him gently up and leading him out of the room, in through Ryan's bedroom door.

Inside, he wants to look around, to greedily take in every detail, but instead he just closes his eyes and lets his body fall gently where Ryan deposits him.

He opens his eyes a crack, already feeling sleep want to overtake him and says, "Ryan?"

Ryan doesn't say anything back, but after a minute, Brendon feels the bed dip and Ryan angles his body protectively around him.

\---

He wakes up to the sound of a key in the door, to Ryan's body, suddenly stiff against his, to his rapid, almost silent, "Nonononononono."

Ryan scrambles off the bed, face frenzied.

From outside the room a sharp, low voice calls, "RYAN!" And Ryan folds in on himself, grabbing his head in his hands.

"So fucking stupid," he curses himself, full of enough malice to make Brendon flinch.

He gets himself up, gets himself over to Ryan. Takes Ryan's hands away from where they were knotting into his hair. "Hey, it's okay."

Ryan laughs hysterically. "It's really not."

Another yell, "RYAN, GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE."

Brendon keeps his hold of Ryan's hands.

"Does he sound drunk?"

Ryan takes a second to breathe, to listen. They can hear his father walking around the apartment, but it just sounds angry to Brendon's ears. Ryan confirms it, "No. Just pissed. Probably got fucking fired again." He looks at Brendon sharply. "That's enough, Brendon. Do you understand? He doesn't have to be drunk."

Jesus.

"And me?"

Ryan smiles bitterly. "We're long past putting on a happy face for company."

Brendon clearly needs to get a lot fucking smarter about stuff like this. And fast.

But Ryan's already thinking, "Fire escape. You can get there in time, you don't have to pass the living room. You'll have to be quiet."

Brendon doesn't move. "You're coming with me."

Ryan shakes his head. "No, Brendon."

"Ryan--"

"No." There's no room for argument in Ryan's face.

Brendon concedes with a reluctant nod.

"You go past the bathroom, alright, not the door that comes right after it, but go into the next room, there's a window and you can climb out onto the fire escape, it's not a jump or anything, you'll be fine."

Brendon runs over Ryan's instructions in his head. He nods when he's sure he's got it.

Ryan's dad shouts his name again, adding, "So help me, if you're not out here in..." but doesn't bother finishing the threat. Brendon can only assume Ryan can be relied on to fill in the blanks on his own.

Ryan pushes Brendon forward slightly, out of the room, "I have to go, you know where you're going?"

He says, "Ryan, I--"

Ryan raises a silencing hand, "Just be there tomorrow when I get to school, alright? Just... just be there."

Brendon nods "I promise."

Ryan takes a breath, and without a second glance, he slips out of the room.

Brendon hears the yelling start almost immediately, hears Ryan's screaming back, and he wants to run after him, but he does what he was told.

He gets out, and somehow, gets home.

His parents are distracted, and he manages to duck their questions.

He lies awake all night, waiting for morning.

\---

He gets dressed around five.

Not that getting dressed really does him any good, he still has to pace around his room for a good hour and a half before he can even think about going downstairs.

There's family breakfast to sit through, and he eats mechanically while his family chatters around him, wanting to scream.

Finally, just after seven, he's out of the house. He can't exactly run, not with yesterday's escapades, but he walks as fast as his body will let him. The doors of the school don't actually open until 7:45 for non-faculty, but the point is to be standing at the front gate before Ryan gets there. The point is to be there so he can be the first thing Ryan sees.

He crosses his arms, modeling his stance after Ryan's, and waits.

\---

People start filtering in by 7:30, walking past him. Some give him weird looks, but most barely register he's there.

There's no sign of Ryan.

By ten to eight, Brendon starts to freak out. The first bell is at eight, and he'll need a note to get past security if he's later than that.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, waiting.

\----

At 7:58, Ryan tears into view. He looks past Brendon for a second, eyes scanning frantically, and then he finds him, eyes locking with Brendon's. Relief shows clear and ragged on Ryan's face, only for an instant, and then he smooths his features into a neutral mask.

Brendon needs him half-way, and for a second their hands meet each other's mid-air. Their fingers tangle, squeeze, and release.

"You get in trouble?" Ryan asks out of the corner of his mouth as they race to get inside.

Brendon shakes his head. "No. They didn't notice anything."

Ryan makes a disgusted noise, and then looks surprised at himself.

"I'm okay." Brendon promises him.

Ryan looks at him, "Are you?"

Brendon laughs at himself a little, even though he's completely serious when he says, "Well, now that you're here."

Ryan moves a little closer to him, but doesn't slow his steps.

They make it inside just in time.

\---

Ryan shadows Brendon all day.

They actually have a fight - an extremely quiet, mostly non-verbal fight - about whether Ryan is actually going to skip his last class of the morning and lurk outside Brendon's classroom, quote, "just in case," which somehow, possibly because he busts out the sadeyes, Brendon wins.

Brendon is somewhat stunned to realize the sadeyes work on Ryan, who he had previously assumed impervious to such things. Ryan looks him over pretty thoroughly once they're reunited at the lunch table, hands coming to hold Brendon securely in place, keeping him still while he searches for signs of infringement, but when he finally meets Brendon's eyes, there's a relieved smile on his face.

Brendon smiles back, and Ryan's cheeks turns slightly pink.

Apparently Ryan's guarding the softness of his heart a little less vigilantly these days.

He watches Ryan do a good impression of killing a ninth grader with his eyes when he happens to make the grave mistake of looking at Brendon when he walks by their table and Brendon snorts to himself.

Maybe just where he's concerned.

\---

He has choir practice that afternoon, and Mr. Way swoops in worriedly the second he catches sight of Brendon. Ryan is standing as far back as he's willing to go, which is a rather impressive five feet (if you're grading on a curve, and having the kind of week they're having, it's totally impressive), arms folded and eyes scanning the room as students begin to mill in.

Mr. Way glances at Ryan and then leans back in to talk to Brendon.

"Is everything all right?"

Brendon nods slightly and then raises his eyebrows in Ryan's direction. "He's gonna... is it all right if he stays? You know, for practice?"

Mr. Way looks surprised, and then he waves both hands in the air, "Is it... of course it's okay!" He flaps his hands a little more. It's kind of a thing he does. "Does he want to, would he want to sing?"

Brendon shakes his head. "No, just watch."

Mr. Way's face grows serious, but he's careful not to look back over at Ryan. He's deeply grateful for the effort. Subtlety is not really Mr. Way's strong suit. As it is, over Mr. Way's shoulder he can see Ryan pretending not to look.

Brendon makes a funny face at Ryan and he rolls his eyes indulgently. Brendon counts it as a win.

He also counts it as a win when Mr. Way doesn't comment, just smiles and says, "Of course. Always good to keep a sharp eye."

Ryan starts coming to every practice after that, just sitting at the back, watching, sometimes flipping through a book, but always, always with at least one eye and, no doubt both ears, trained on Brendon.

Every time Mr. Way smiles at Ryan on his way in and out of the room, but his presence is never remarked on again.

\---

The problem with what happened that afternoon at Ryan's - well, the most immediate problem, at any rate - is that now they have nowhere to try and practice. Ryan categorically refuses to let Brendon step foot in his apartment again, and something about that day shuts Ryan up in himself, even tighter against the world, to the effect that he won't go to Brendon's either.

All he says about it is, "Just borrowing trouble," shaking his head when Brendon tries to question him further.

Between school and choir, he's with Ryan most of his waking hours anyway, but still, it isn't enough.

But then, if Brendon didn't have to sleep, if he could be awake twenty-four hours a day and have Ryan for every minute of it, he still doubts it would be enough.

\---

The thing about Ryan is that he's only human, which has implications that clearly frustrate him to no end - such as the fact that he has to go to the bathroom occasionally. Which can mean that he actually has to leave Brendon alone for a few minutes. That is, when he doesn't just glare at the ground until Brendon says, "You know what? Me too," and goes with him.

Ryan has the school mapped in his head, always knows where the closest bathroom is, where there are decent places to hide, what classrooms get left open, what stairwells are the least frequently used. Brendon knows Ryan plans every second away from contact, always minimizing any time away.

The only time Ryan seems even vaguely at ease about leaving Brendon alone is in the choir room.

To say that Ryan trusts Mr. Way would be a kind of hysterical exaggeration, but he doesn't seem to bristle inside his skin every time Mr. Way gets near Brendon, which is more than can be said about pretty much anyone else in the school. Or possibly the world. Ryan's distrust and suspicion stretches impressively far, from what Brendon's seen.

It's kind of hard not to think he's entitled. Considering.

So Brendon doesn't like to take advantage, is the thing. Doesn't like to push his luck, or give Ryan anything extra to worry about.

Still, Ryan gave Brendon his words. He swallowed down the pride and the fear and he handed them to Brendon.

And now they're just sitting in Brendon's backpack, going to waste.

Brendon can't really have that. He just fucking can't.

So he bides his time through a few more practices, waiting for Ryan to make the face that indicates he's annoyed with himself for not being more robot-like when it comes to such trivialities as needing to drink, sleep and use the washroom. When it happens, Brendon keeps singing, keeps focused on the rest of the group, until Ryan finally gives in with an angry huff at himself and, after nodding sharply to Brendon, slips out of the room.

As soon as the door closes behind Ryan, Brendon breaks away from the rest of the choir, coming right up to Mr. Way, leaning in and saying, "Can we talk... like for a minute?"

Mr. Way waves a handful of sheet music and tells the other students to, "Take five minutes to work on your vocal exercises," and then draws Brendon to the back corner of the room.

"Are you in distress?" he asks earnestly.

Brendon snorts, but manages to keep it mostly silent. Mr. Way is totally awesome as long as he ignores his most of training. Occasionally though, he still comes out sounding like a handbook.

"Not really."

Mr. Way looks extremely relieved. "Good. Shit." He laughs. "I totally went to school for this, can you tell?"

Brendon smiles. "Sometimes. Not usually though."

Mr. Way beams a little.

"So it's about Ryan." Mr. Way prompts gently.

Brendon sighs, glad to find he's going to make this easy. "It's about Ryan and music," he doesn't know how to ask for what he needs to ask for, can't stand really trying to put Mr. Way in that position except. Except it's Ryan. "I can't... exactly tell you. But he - we - need a place to..." He shrugs.

"Practice?"

Brendon resists the urge to hug him. Just barely.

"And I just thought... maybe you'd know of like... I don't know. Somewhere." It really had seemed like a better plan inside Brendon's head.

Mr. Way runs a hand through his impressively unwashed black hair. "I'd say you should both just come here, but students aren't allowed on campus unsupervised and I get the impression that's not really gonna work for him."

Brendon bites the inside of his cheek, wondering if it's a betrayal of Ryan even to nod.

Mr. Way looks defeated for half a second and then his face lights up. He snaps his fingers and says, "Mikey." The word is spoken like the answer to most problems Mr. Way has encountered.

He rambles on, mostly to himself, "Or well - Ray... but Mikey was the one who got him." Mr. Way focuses back in on Brendon. "My brother and his partner - Ray Toro - they have a house. And Ray's a guitar player - session work mainly - but he writes music too, plays a lot, and because of that their basement is sound-proof. As long as someone was home, I mean - I'll have to ask - but I'm pretty sure if I explain it..." he smiles, "Yeah. Mikey'll say yes."

Before Brendon gets a chance to explode with gratitude, Mr. Way's eyes suddenly widen and he takes a step back.

Ryan pushes through the door, looking at them curiously.

Brendon smiles and says, "Thanks for the tip," to Mr. Way and rejoins the rest of the choir.

Ryan goes back to his seat without comment and Brendon joins in as Mr. Way leads them into the chorus of Yellow Submarine.

At the end of practice, Mr. Way smiles extra-encouragingly, but doesn't make any attempt to discuss the issue further. Brendon reminds himself to stay calm, and trusts his hope with Mikey Way.

\---

It's another week of practices before Mr. Way starts making eyes at Brendon like he has something to tell him whenever Ryan isn't looking, and three more practices after that before Ryan actually leaves practice long enough for Mr. Way to say, "They said yes. Mikey and Ray. If you guys come meet them, agree to a couple ground-rules, their answer is yes."

Brendon feels joy erupt inside him, sudden and raw, but he tries to breathe through it. That's one hurdle down; no getting ahead of himself, though. Still, he remembers the manners his mother taught him. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

Mr. Way looks at him carefully. "Ryan'll take some convincing, huh?"

Brendon swallows. "I'll work him around to it, really. This is better than anything I could have hoped for. Thank you so much."

Mr. Way nods slightly, acknowledging the thanks, "Would you let me try?"

Brendon's eyes widen. "Talking to Ryan?"

Mr. Way smiles knowingly. "I'm sure it'll shock you to know it - but I wasn't always the picture of togetherness you see before you." He waves a hand in his own general direction.

Today he's wearing a vest, a red tie, too-tight pinstripe pants and boots that are almost up to his his knees. He's probably showered, but from his hair, you wouldn't know it.

None of that is enough to convince Brendon, though. But as he watches Mr. Way's hand move Brendon notices his fingers for the first time. All the nails are chewed to the quick, almost bloody.

Just like Ryan's.

He takes a breath and says, "Okay."

\---

Brendon was bracing himself for a serious uphill battle, but convincing Ryan to talk to Mr. Way actually proves ridiculously easy.

Ryan has gotten into the practice of walking Brendon almost home, veering off a block before they get to Brendon's house, lurking, fists dug into pockets, until he sees Brendon safely inside.

Brendon waits until he's almost at that one block mark before turning to look into Ryan's eyes and ask, "Do something for me?"

Ryan squares his shoulders and says, "Okay," before Brendon has a chance to say anything more.

He clarifies his request somewhat, saying, "I want you go have a talk with Mr. Way."

Ryan shrugs somewhat impatiently and says, "I said okay."

Brendon nods and keeps frustration with himself quiet. Evidently he has to get better at remembering Ryan doesn't say things he doesn't mean.

Not to Brendon.

\---

The actual hard part is figuring out how to get Ryan to leave Brendon alone on campus long enough to talk to Mr. Way by himself. Brendon would be there too, but he kind of senses that Mr. Way might say some things to Ryan he's not ready for Brendon to be around to hear yet.

But when Brendon and Ryan get as far as the choir room and Brendon makes a hand motion like, "I'll just wait out here," Ryan raises his eyebrows slightly and then glares down at his shoes as if to say, "If you actually think that's going to happen, you have another think coming, buddy."

Brendon runs his fingers up the resewn seam of his sleeve. He had to add a length of cloth to widen the sleeves enough to still fit in this shirt. He kind of likes the way it looks better now anyway. "Yeah. Right."

Ryan kicks Brendon's foot gently with the toe of his shoe. "I'll walk you back to homeroom," he offers grudgingly.

Brendon doesn't bother to say, "I can remember where it is." He just nods and falls into step with Ryan.

\---

Ryan squeezes his shoulder before he leaves Brendon positioned at the front of their homeroom class. It's lunch, but you're allowed to eat in there if you're not eating cafeteria food, so there are a few other kids. Ryan sizes every single one of them up, and looks at the supervising teacher with mild disdain and a certain lack of confidence before finally walking out the door.

He's gone for almost half an hour. Half an hour of Brendon's heart hammering in his chest. Half hope, half worry. A lot of simple, prickly missing of Ryan's presence at his side.

When he finally comes back, Ryan waits in the doorway, waving his hand at Brendon with more animation than Brendon's seen yet, apart from fighting.

Brendon gets back to Ryan's side as fast as his feet will take him. Once they're out of the room Ryan says, "A place. For us."

Brendon's heart pretty much skips a beat, hearing the pure happiness in Ryan's voice. To hear the stress in that last word.

He lets his smile out in full force.

Fantastically, Ryan smiles back.

"Gerard said we could go there, on Saturday." He looks down at Brendon, still smiling softly. Hopefully. "Do you think you can get away, convince your parents?"

Brendon swallows. Over the last few months, there have been little things. Half-truths. Lies of omission. But there's no way to explain this to them that they'll accept. No way but to lie. A real, direct lie. If he agrees, it will be the first of that kind he's ever told to his parents.

But Ryan is still looking at him, and there is still naked, open hope in his eyes. There's no answer Brendon can give but, "Yes."

\---

He can't tell them about Ryan, about wanting to help write songs, wanting to sing them. They barely tolerate him being in a secular choir as it is. Nor can he really explain about this art-school dropout teacher who loves music and has paint in his hair, can't tell them about his little brother and his boyfriend, who are letting him and the friend he can't tell them about make music in their basement.

So he tells them he's going for a bike ride, tells them he might go study in the library on the outskirts of their neighborhood. His father doesn't look up from the book he's reading. His mother nods absently and warns him to be home before dinner. None of this***his*** brothers and sisters notice he's leaving.

He meets Ryan a block from his house, and they bike in silence all the way to Mikey Way's house. Ryan has his guitar strapped to his back.

When they arrive, Gerard - Ryan has informed him they're to call him that now - is sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. There's an impressively large cup of coffee beside him.

He stamps out his cigarette when he spots them, muttering, "Shit. Good role-modeling," and waving to them somewhat spasticly.

Brendon is delighted to see Ryan fighting back a smile.

Gerard grins at them and says, "Hey, guys. You made it."

Brendon laughs a little. Like they're the ones doing him the favor.

He waves them inside. "Come on. Gotta introduce you to Mikes."

Gerard leads them into the kitchen. There's a sturdy looking guy with indescribable hair sprawling out at the table, looking over sheet music. He looks nothing like Gerard but Brendon makes a hesitant, "Hi, thanks so much for being willing to meet us and--"

The guy laughs and says, "No problem, but you should probably be thanking Mikey. He's the one who talked me into it."

Brendon blinks a little and suddenly this sleek, skinny dude with glasses tucked over his hair just appears, stepping away from the pantry wall he was evidently leaning against the whole time. He smiles, and Brendon gets his first taste of the utter faith with which he heard Gerard speak Mikey's name.

He holds out a hand, long fingers and arm. "Hi, I'm Mikey."

Brendon shakes his hand while Ryan watches calculatingly.

Mikey just shrugs a hello to Ryan, and Brendon feels him ease up slightly beside him.

Gerard smiles at everyone within range. "So this is Ray - obviously - and Ryan and Brendon," Ray waves, which Brendon likes in a guy he's already talked to. He waves back.

Ryan nods a little, and Mikey smiles to himself.

Gerard keeps talking, occasionally with input from Ray, about times they're okay to have them come practice, times when at least one of them will be home.

But Ray explains, "But we'll keep the basement door open to you, as long as we're home, so you can come and go a bit. Give you some privacy. I've got some of my guitars down there, and I'd be pretty bummed if you stole them. But if I thought you were going to do that, none of us would be here right now anyway."

Ryan looks a little shell-shocked at the level of trust being offered to him.

Mikey explains, "Gee vouched. He's kind of hopeless at most stuff," Gerard doesn't disagree, just keeps smiling, "but he's pretty good at picking people. So we trust you if he does."

Gerard says confidently, "You're good kids."

Ryan blinks. Brendon can tell no one has ever said that about him before. Certainly not when they clearly meant it.

They talk a little more, and Mikey lets Gerard and Ray take over. He leans back against the wall and practically melts into it. After a minute or two, Brendon nearly forgets he's there. Ryan keeps his formal attention on Ray and Gerard, but Brendon can tell he's watching Mikey out the corner of his eye. Brendon's never seen him so obviously impressed.

That's about the time Brendon actually lets himself believe they might actually make something out of this opportunity after all. He smiles as hope settles into his chest.

\---

They settle into a routine almost immediately. Every Saturday, Thursday afternoon and Monday evening, they bike to Mikey and Ray's and play music and work on songs.

Ryan loosens, down in the basement, softens around the edges, smiles easier, moves with less calculation.

He still doesn't talk much, preferring to say most things silently, or with his lyrics, but that's usually enough for Brendon to understand. When it isn't, when he has Ryan's words but doesn't understand them well enough to sing them right, those are times Ryan will explain. He'll talk for hours at a time, when it's about his lyrics, he'll explain everything that's in his heart, as long as there's that line, as though the third person voice or the characters Ryan gives to his experiences are enough distance to pretend.

Brendon allows Ryan his illusions, and soaks up all the insights Ryan is wiling to share, whatever the manner in which he's able to divulge them.

Sometimes they'll go upstairs when they're done for the day, or taking a break, and Mikey and Ryan will have silent conversations with their eyebrows and flicks of their wrists while Ray and Brendon talk about guitars and, increasingly, food. Ray is an amazing cook, and that's usually what lures them up. Smells too rich and intoxicating to resist.

Brendon is aware this was probably a conscious plan on Ray's part, he's actually kind of cunning like that - especially with Mikey to help - but Brendon doesn't care. What matters is that it actually works, that it gets Ryan up those stairs, over his fear and his reluctance to ever make himself known, to impress upon their hospitality any harder than is strictly necessary.

Sometimes Gerard is there, sometimes he isn't, but even when he's not, they go up, they talk, they let Ray feed them and let Mikey fold his arms and hover around them, and every time it happens Ryan's shoulders get a little less tense, his smiles get a little more real, and there, together in that space, they feel a little more like they're at home.

\---

Sometimes, after they've practiced for a few hours, Ryan will submit to Brendon's silent pleas for a break - which he wants not because he doesn't want to keep playing, keep singing - but because, on good days, a break will mean curling up together on the couch in the warmest corner of the basement. On the best days, when he's tired straight through and they've both played well, communicated ideas well, Ryan will lie with his head in Brendon's lap and let Brendon run his fingers softly and methodically through Ryan's hair.

He waits for one of those times to ask, "Do you believe me now, when I say I won't leave?"

Ryan stays relaxed, but his body curves closer against Brendon's legs. "I believe you won't want to."

Brendon reminds himself to take what he can get. Reminds himself that - coming from Ryan - that means a lot. He's only ever heard Ryan talk about one other person with even that amount of confidence. And really. It's not like Brendon even minds living under the shadow of Spencer Smith, most days. He just wishes the only person Ryan's ever truly considered his friend didn't end up setting such a bad fucking precedent for the rest of them.

He reminds himself of these things so he can move on, because that's not really why he's asking anyway.

"But you didn't. Before. I mean - before That Day." They talk about it like that. When they talk about it at all.

Ryan shifts, his eyes fluttering open, looking up at Brendon.

"You stayed. You... fought with me. For me."

Brendon nods. "But not before. Not even when you first gave me your lyrics." Getting to the point now.

Ryan's face shutters slightly, he tucks his head against Brendon's thigh, not looking at him anymore.

Brendon keeps carding his fingers through Ryan's hair.

"No," he answers eventually. "Not then."

"Then why? Why show me - why trust--"

"They're good." Ryan's voice cuts in with cool, brittle confidence.

Brendon struggles to keep up. "They are," he acknowledges carefully.

Ryan shrugs slightly. "Good enough for you. I thought." He closes his eyes. "Your voice is so - and they're good. So I hoped." It's as much as Ryan can seem to force out.

Brendon tells himself it shouldn't feel quite so much like getting hit. He tries to remind himself he's not just a voice to Ryan. Not just that. It doesn't really work.

Still, he swallows, forces himself to ask, "But now?" Wishing he didn't, but needing the reassurance desperately.

Ryan's fingers snake out, squeezing Brendon's knee. "Bonus."

Brendon closes his eyes, and breathes.

\---

The next morning, Ryan is gone. Brendon gets to their meeting place and Ryan isn't there standing watch like he always is, so Brendon just stands there, waiting, until he's almost late for school. He waits until he can't anymore, until he has to run the whole way to make it on time, and still Ryan doesn't come.

He doesn't show up in first period, nor in second. He's not there to walk Brendon to his last class of the morning, not there at lunch to smile at the stupid things Brendon says, to eat off his plate and crack his knuckles threateningly when people pass too close to their table.

He isn't there all afternoon. He isn't there to stand outside the bathroom stall when Brendon goes in, isn't there to loom imperiously over him while he risks a drink at the water fountain.

He isn't there to walk with Brendon to choir practice, isn't there to watch Brendon sing.

\---

All week, Ryan isn't there.

Brendon panics, quietly, continuously. He's afraid for Ryan. So afraid he can't see straight.

He bikes by Ryan's apartment every day after school, he even rings the buzzer a couple times.

There's no answer. No sign.

It's like Ryan's dropped off the face of the earth.

\---

Gerard tries to talk to Brendon about where Ryan is, he says the school has called Ryan's house, that there's no answer. He offers to drive Brendon there.

Brendon shakes his head. Says no, and thank you.

It's so much less than Gerard deserves at this point, and he knows it most of all when Gerard looks at him sadly, and says, voice soft, "I'm just worried about you, kid. Ryan, too. We all are."

He hasn't been around the house, obviously hasn't been there without Ryan.

He swallows back his desire to say, "I could come by," and "Has Mikey made any new sweaters for Piglet lately?" and "How's that new song you and Ray are working on?" Instead he smiles a little and says, "Thanks for your concern. But I'm fine, and I'm sure Ryan is too."

It's the deepest lie Brendon's ever told, but Ryan is gone, and there's nothing else to do but try to believe it.

\---

His worry about Ryan keeps him focused, keeps him getting up in the morning, keeps him watchful, until the eighth day when he loses the fight, and starts listening to the voice inside his head that tells him he should have expected this. Should have expected it when the only good things Ryan ever said to him, the only things about Brendon Ryan seemed to actually like was that he could sing, that he was there. It was hardly enough.

He was annoying, he was kind of klutzy, he was loud and attracted too much of the wrong kind of attention.

Ryan had enough trouble in his life as it was.

\---

He's so busy missing Ryan, wondering where he is, wondering why he's gone, that he doesn't even see the hand that reaches out and grabs him. Doesn't even struggle as strong arms haul him behind the stairs at the far end of the east wing of the school.

It's a Tuesday. Ryan has been gone for ten days. Brendon was just on his way out of school, choir practice gone late again, but now he's backed up against a wall, shoulder blades digging into it, and someone is holding him there, laughing.

He opens his eyes. It's Liam Grey. Brendon knows because Ryan used to mutter his name sometimes, glaring down at his fists like he was willing them to get larger.

Liam's face is all healed up from the day Ryan punched him straight in the mouth, but from the look in his eyes, he still hasn't gotten over it.

Brendon tries to struggle, and gets the breath knocked out of him with a low, hard punch, for his trouble.

He coughs and tries to say, "Fuck you," but it comes out mostly a ragged wheeze.

Liam is talking. He's saying, "No one to protect you now, you little bitch. Guess Ross got tired of you, huh? Maybe you're not as good with that mouth as you look, you fucking cunt."

He shakes Brendon with every word. Brendon's brain keeps stuttering, he can't understand what is happening, can't make meaning out of the sounds.

But he really should be paying better attention, because Liam is shoving him down onto his knees, pushing at Brendon's head, one hand gripping his jaw, and he's saying, "Well, let's find out."

\---

Brendon is curled up in a ball on the floor. He's telling himself to forget it, he's trying to pretend he blacked out. That he doesn't know how he got here, doesn't understand why his jaw aches and there are tears still stinging his eyes.

But it's a lie.

He remembers every second, he was utterly aware through all of it, and just in case that wasn't enough, each sharp and brutal motion is playing in a Technicolor loop right before his eyes, shut tight as they are.

Liam's final words, right before he shoved Brendon roughly away and spit on the floor beside him, ring out in his ears.

"No wonder he stopped babysitting your ass. Not fucking worth it."

\---

Eventually Brendon forces himself to accept that no amount of closing his eyes and praying for himself to disappear will make it happen. He gives himself another minute to grieve over the loss of that hope, and then pulls himself up off the ground. He wipes his mouth clean with shaking fingers, and then walks out of the school, and then home.

He brushes his teeth for an hour and showers until one of his sisters pounds on the bathroom door and demands he quit hogging it.

It doesn't help.

\---

The next morning when he makes himself get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, and leave the house. When he gets to their spot, the mailbox at the corner Brock and Sturgeon one block from Brendon's house, Ryan is there.

At first, Brendon keeps right on walking, sure he's imagining it as he has so every morning since Ryan's been gone. But just as he's about to pass right by him Ryan makes a noise, confused and soft, and Brendon's knees buckle.

Ryan is just close enough, just fast enough, to reach out and catch Brendon, and he supports him by his elbows while Brendon laughs. Even as the laughter echoes in his ears, Brendon can't tell whether it's from relief or desperation.

Just a little too late.

Ryan makes no physical sign that it's a struggle to keep Brendon up, but his face contorts. More confusion, rapidly turning into fear. "Brendon, what's wrong? What happened?"

It's out of his mouth before can stop himself, before he can think, "You were gone." His voice breaks as he says the last word and it hangs between them like the accusation Brendon never wanted to make. He never even imagined he'd get the chance.

Ryan takes it as his due, nodding furiously and saying, "I know. I know. I'm so sorry. My dad was in the hospital. He... they said he might not make it and it was so fucking stupid but I couldn't... for some reason I couldn't leave him there."

Distantly, Brendon wonders if he's right to hear, "not even for you," silently added at the end of that sentence.

Ryan's fingers are still digging into his arms, holding him, and he pulls himself away, not as roughly as he planned. He's not angry with Ryan. Ryan's claim was on Brendon, he'd never offered the same to Brendon in return. So he doesn't fool himself into thinking he has a right to anything like anger, like disappointment. He just can't stand anyone's touch on his skin.

Ryan cocks his head, following Brendon's movements, eyes widening as he tries to understand.

"Brendon," Ryan whispers the name, "I missed you."

Brendon chokes back a sob and tells the truth, "I missed you too."

\---

They start walking to school and Ryan hovers close, making Brendon's throat close up and his eyes sting.

He wonders if Ryan would want to stand so close to him if he ever found out what happened.

Ryan is talking, filling up the silence between them in a way he never seemed to feel obligated to before. Brendon realizes that this is possibly because in the past he was always the one doing it for Ryan.

"I can't believe I didn't even think to fucking call you - let you know what was going on. That I wasn't--" He looks at Brendon fiercely. "You know I wouldn't leave you alone willingly, right? You know I wouldn't leave you."

Brendon wants to laugh again. Instead he nods a little. "I guess so." He's remembering that he should know. That he owes Ryan that much.

Ryan's fists ball up. "I'm such a fucking - Bren. I'm sorry. I should have called Mikey's - I should have realized it was an okay place to get a message to you. But all I could think about was how I couldn't call your parents - and I couldn't call the school - and they kept telling me he only had hours - then days - and then he was suddenly getting better and I just... I couldn't think."

Brendon tries to smile. "Of course. Ryan. You don't have to be sorry. He's your dad - you were in the hospital. It's not like... I understand. Totally. Don't worry." It doesn't matter that he does understand, that Ryan hasn't done anything wrong. It doesn't stop what... Brendon shudders and tries shut off his mind.

But Ryan is still there, walking beside him, talking, looking like he wants to touch Brendon's arm.

"I finally... they sent him home last night. Some guys from his last job came and helped me get him home. I lied about my age so that they didn't call any other relatives. He kept apologizing," he rolls his head heavenward. "He always fucking apologizes after one of these fiascoes. I don't understand why he thinks I'd believe him, at this point." To Brendon, it sounds more like Ryan doesn't understand why some part of him still does. Or at least wants to.

He says, "He's your dad."

"He's a fucking train wreck," Ryan responds harshly.

Brendon shrugs.

Ryan stops in front of him. "Brendon. You're not... okay."

Brendon shakes his head. "Sure I am."

Ryan reaches out and Brendon's body shivers back before he can stop it.

Ryan's face goes wide, cold. "Who hurt you?"

Brendon takes a few more steps back, looks away. He can't lie... he's trying to force something out, something that will convince Ryan he's okay, or at least get him to leave, before he decides to do that on his own, but Brendon can't get his stupid fucking mouth to work. Useless at yet another thing.

Ryan won't be so easily evaded. He circles around Brendon, ducking his head, trying to catch Brendon's eyes. "Bren. Tell me. Who touched you?"

"Why?" Brendon's voice cracks out at last. Why does it even matter.

Ryan stills, and calmly responds, "So I can put them in the fucking hospital."

The steel in Ryan's voice is the first thing that's made Brendon feel remotely human in the past eighteen hours.

It doesn't really solve any of his problems, though.

It's almost the truth when Brendon says, "Yeah. That's kind of why I won't be telling you."

Ryan looks at him sharply. "No, it's not."

Shit.

"Ryan---"

"What was it? What did they do you think you can't tell me?"

Brendon kind of wants to know who the hell this guy standing before him is. This guy who looks like Ryan Ross but sure as hell doesn't talk like him. The only demands Ryan has ever made before this were made silently.

"Please." Brendon whispers. "Stop asking."

Ryan's face gets bleak, gray. "Right. I'm sorry."

Brendon waves a frantic hand, "It's not that I--"

Ryan shakes his head. "No. I don't know what I was. Jesus." He closes his eyes. Opens them. "Are you... is this okay? Me being here." He makes a motion between them. They're standing close, but it's enough distance that Brendon can still breathe.

He nods.

Ryan keeps watching, keeps assessing carefully. "And I'll stay here, stay with you. You want that?"

Brendon doesn't even have to think this time, just nods quick and hard.

Ryan's relief is a physical thing. "Okay. Okay, good. So that's what we'll do. Just like this."

They start walking again, and Brendon looks over at Ryan, head bent, hands shoved into pockets, walking with steady determination against the wind. He almost wants to touch Ryan to make sure he's real, but for the moment keeps his hands to himself and just tries to trust his eyes.

Ryan catches him looking and smiles a smile Brendon has never seen before. It's at once the saddest and the realest smile Brendon's ever seen.

"I'm right here, Brendon," Ryan says, like a promise he's glad to be making.

Brendon nods and lets out a shaky breath. "Me too."

\---

There's a moment when they reach the school gate that Brendon genuinely doesn't think he'll be able to go in, doesn't think he can force a single more step.

But then Ryan hovers slightly closer, peering into his face, checking for clues, and Brendon waves him away with a vaguely convincing, "Hey. I'm fine. Let's go."

Ryan nods and leaves it at that, walking a half-step ahead of Brendon the whole way to their class. His eyes strain to glare furiously at everyone and everything and for a moment Brendon almost feels like he could laugh and mean it.

They're almost early, the only ones not loitering in the halls and leaning against lockers, and Brendon feels himself start to panic when students finally start filtering into the room. He manages to hold it together by focusing in on a set of breathing exercises Gerard taught the jazz choir, but his heart doesn't approach anything like a normal rate until his breath starts following along to another pattern entirely.

Across from him, Ryan is lounging low in his desk, seemingly apathetic, aloof, his eyes never so much as glancing Brendon's way. But between his thumb and forefinger he's loosely holding his pen, and he's drumming it against his thigh, a steady rat-tat-tat.

Brendon closes his eyes and listens until it's the only thing he can hear.

\---

Brendon panics for real, complete with near hyperventilation, when third period rolls around and he realizes - somehow for the first time - that he and Ryan will have to separate.

He can't breathe and he's pretty much ready to throw up all over his shoes, but Ryan's hands come firm and cool on his neck, his voice reaching Brendon somehow, saying, "Bren. Breathe. Stay with me."

It takes a few attempts, but he manages to comply.

Ryan takes his hands away as quickly as possible. Brendon appreciates it and hates it all at once.

"I'm walking you there. And you just stay put. Sit at your desk and practice the songs we were last working on in your head, okay? Just think about the words. Think about how you might sing them. And when class is over you wait for me - all right? I'll come get you. Stay in the classroom until I'm there. I'll come for you." He looks at Brendon sharply. "I promise, okay?"

Promise. It's a word Ryan has never used.

Brendon takes it inside himself, repeats it in his head until he believes it.

He nods. "Okay."

\---

He makes it through class.

Barely.

He takes a good 15 minutes to chew himself out, fucking lunatic, because what exactly had he been thinking this morning? Getting up and leaving the house like he would have had a chance in hell of even making it through the front doors of this place if Ryan hadn't reappeared to make it almost bearable.

He uses some other words to refer to himself too, but then he tries to be good, to do what Ryan told him, to work on something that'll help. He tries not to think that'll keep Ryan with him.

Even as he's afraid of Ryan leaving again it feels disloyal, childish. Ryan didn't mean to leave him the first time. He's given no indication he wants to now.

Brendon's brain scuttles around thoughts of what information might change Ryan's mind.

When the bell rings he wants to leap from his seat, but he gets up slowly, packs up his bag, and lingers as long as he can before heading to the doorway.

Ryan is standing against the wall, directly facing the door, arms crossed as per, wearing his most convincing don't fuck with me face.

Brendon is stupidly in love with that face.

But when Ryan's face transforms into a relieved smile, Brendon has to admit that maybe he's just stupidly in love with Ryan Ross in general.

\---

As life-altering revelations go, Brendon doesn't really have time to digest this particular one. It's hard enough just to try and remember how to walk with the number of people who stare at them as they maneuver the halls, the once familiar whispers taking on a sharper, more threatening tone. It's more than enough work to manage not to gag with every other breath, the once-familiar smells of the school suddenly poisonous, revolting.

In short, his brain is otherwise occupied.

They make it to the cafeteria eventually, and Brendon wishes there were anywhere else they could go, but everywhere in school poses the same problems, and they can't leave campus without passes he'd never convince his parents to sign off on.

It's certainly the least of his problems, but Brendon also forgot to bring his lunch, which he planned to ignore, but Ryan insists on buying them the largest plate of fries money can buy, placing it between them on the table with considerable satisfaction.

Brendon tries to eat with enthusiasm, but Ryan isn't easily fooled.

Brendon sighs, trying to think of an apology, an explanation, but Ryan preempts him, shaking his head and reaching into his bag, hands coming out wrapped around another notebook. Brendon hasn't seen that one yet. He hasn't even seen Ryan writing in it.

Ryan bites his lip at it for a second before shoving it into Brendon's hands.

Brendon holds it in up-turned palms, uncertain.

"I wrote in that while I was at the hospital - while I was gone."

Brendon concentrates on Ryan's face. This is an offering. The only thing like an apology Ryan knows how to do. Different than the words he spoke that morning. Going deeper, saying things they may neither of them be ready to hear spoken aloud.

Brendon has never looked at Ryan's lyrics for the first time while Ryan's actually there. But that seems to be the intent now, so he opens the notebook; even though the thought of singing makes his stomach turn and jaw clench, he starts to read.

He flips through half-written sentences, abandoned, crossed-out verses, and settles where Ryan has scribbled Camisado at the top of the page.

He wants to tell Ryan he doesn't need to see this, doesn't need the horror of Ryan's time away in order to forgive him for something he didn't do wrong and wasn't responsible for in the first place. But it's Ryan, and it's sharp and beautiful, and Brendon's eyes soak the words in greedily before he can make himself speak.

He gets as far as the chorus, heart stuttering over the honesty, the plainness of the words - can't take the kid from the fight / take the fight from the kid - and his hand is reaching out for Ryan's even as the rest of him is screaming out against the thought of touch.

He can't look up, has to keep reading, but Ryan's fingers welcome his. He makes a noise as he finishes the song, and Ryan's fingers tighten around his. Brendon's body jerks, and he almost tears his hand away, but in his mind repeats, it's just Ryan, it's okay, it's Ryan, and he instead finds his fingers clenching down, holding on.

After a beat, Ryan squeezes, but doesn't let go.

\---

At the end of the day they go to the choir room even though there's no practice and even if there was, Brendon doesn't think he can open his mouth to sing. Doesn't know when he'll be brave enough for that again, when he'll trust... he shakes his head. It's nothing he's willing to think about.

Gerard knocks over his coffee cup when he sees them standing in the doorway. He throws up his hands and for a second Brendon sees what Gerard looks like right before he's about to cry, but then that face is gone, and he's grinning at them hugely.

"I would hug you - but there are absolutely rules about that sort of thing." He announces by way of greeting.

Brendon finds himself grinning. He almost means it.

Ryan shuffles his feet.

Gerard gets up from his desk and flaps at them. A mix of worry and happiness.

"Are you alright?" He's asking both of them.

For once Ryan answers first, "Glad to be together again."

Brendon has never heard Ryan mean something so sincerely.

Fear and crawly shame still twist at his insides, but it lessens for a time, in the warm space of that moment.

\---

Gerard takes approximately two minutes to exclaim, "I have to call Mikey!" And then he's doing just that before either of them can respond.

Gerard gets as far as, "Ryan's back - they're both here--" before Mikey evidently takes over.

Gerard smiles and nods through the call. When he closes his phone after a quick, "Love you Mikes," he turns to them and says, "Mikey says you both have to come over now. But just chill for a few more minutes, I gotta get some stuff together. I'll drive."

Ryan blinks and Brendon bites the inside of his cheek.

Thoughts of Mikey's thoughtful stare and Ray's kind-hearted frankness fill him with longing and anxiety all at once.

Ryan makes up Brendon's mind by saying, "I'd like to see them. Apologize for..." He looks suddenly uncertain, like he might be worried about being presumptuous.

"Scaring us half to death? Not your fault, I'm guessing. But Mikey'll need to see you for himself before he feels better."

Ryan doesn't blush, or look down at his shoes (as expected). He just nods and says, "Better get over there then."

\---

Brendon finally has some time to think about his latest problem on the drive to Mikey and Ray's. He sits in the backseat alone, because he won the eyebrow battle with Ryan over whether they could let Gerard sit up front alone and because he said, "You have longer legs - weirdo," and that took care of the rest.

He thinks about what his parents would say. Abomination.

They would try to get him help if they didn't simply throw him out. His mother would cry. His father too, most likely. But in private.

Would they stop talking to him? About him? Would they try to pretend they'd never had a third son called Brendon?

He looks at the back of Ryan's head resting against the seat in front of him. Looks at the curve of Ryan's neck and accepts that he'd like to put his hands there, his lips.

His hands clench over his knees. Bile rises in his throat.

It isn't like what happened. He can't let himself think about it, not for more then a second before his mind flinches away, but even so, he knows it's not. He only wishes he could feel it too.

\---

As soon as they get inside, Mikey crosses his arms and says, "Hmmm."

Ryan moves to stand slightly in front of Brendon, shielding him.

Mikey's next "hmmm" is slightly more troubled.

Gerard looks ready to speak, but Mikey gets there first. He says, "Ray?"

Ray is standing beside Mikey, and it takes him a second, but he nods and says, "Yeah, okay. Hey Brendon, you want to come look at my garden out back?"

Ray is pretty proud of his garden.

Brendon nods, and says, "Uh, sure."

Ryan's eyes are protesting, but he doesn't say anything.

Brendon follows Ray out.

No one mentions that it's December.

\---

Once they're out back Ray asks, "You all right, Brendon?"

And Brendon says, "Not really."

Ray nods and they both kneel down to pull up rotted weeds.

Once they're done, Brendon almost feels better.

\---

They know Mikey and Ryan are out there with them when they hear Mikey's throat clear. It's not pointed exactly... it's just Mikey.

He nods at Ray, and then tilts his head at Brendon.

Brendon had been afraid Mikey would know as soon as he saw him. The way he's looking at him now, he's pretty sure he does.

But there's nothing but understanding and kindness in Mikey's eyes. And when he smiles, just a little, that small Mikey quirk of the lips that barely registers until you know to look for it, with the extra scrunch of nose that means he's smiling just for Brendon, it looks just the same as it always has.

Ray and Mikey go back into the house, and Ryan stands on the deck, looking at Brendon.

Brendon hugs himself and says, "Everything okay?"

Ryan shakes his head a little, although it seems unrelated to Brendon's question.

He steps off the deck, walks towards Brendon.

He stops just short of touching him and says quietly, "Mikey said I should do this," it could almost be mistaken for a warning, but Brendon knows Ryan better. He's just trying to give credit where credit is due.

Brendon nods a little, like permission or just to say he understands, he doesn't even really know himself, and still it's a shock when in the responding moment Ryan's arms wrap around him, holding on, strong and tight.

Brendon waits for his heart to race, for his skin to itch and his head to get spin.

Instead a noise comes out of him - a wounded sob of relief from a place he was working so hard to pretend wasn't there, and he gives in to it, lets his body collapse against Ryan's, trusting Ryan to hold him up.

He presses his face into Ryan's collarbone and takes gulping breaths against his skin.

Ryan hums his name, soft and slow and steady, and keeps Brendon on his feet.

\---

In the days and then weeks that follow, Ryan deploys what Brendon can only assume is a Mikey-Way-approved strategy of gentle yet persistent touches. He never touches Brendon without letting him know it's going to happen, always making soft, half-finished requests, greetings - hey Bren or I'm going to or gonna hold your hand.

It gets to be that he doesn't even think about flinching, doesn't even wait for that crawly feeling to come.

Instead he soaks in every touch, catalogs the feel of Ryan's hand in his, the way the tips of Ryan's fingers skim his knuckles before he lets go, the way he presses their knees together under the lunch table and the way he feels, warm and holding on just tight enough to be solid when they stretch out on the couch to pretend to nap in the basement. They haven't started playing again, and Ryan hasn't asked, but they go there every day now, every afternoon after school, and spend almost all of their Saturdays there. On Sundays Brendon still has to be home, but as long as he's there all day Sunday no one asks him where he goes the rest of the time. Brendon assumes his parents are just glad he finally has friends. He stops himself from wondering what they'd think if they knew how it really was. At least inside Brendon's head. His heart.

Every night before they say good bye, Ryan hugs him - long and hard like if he could he wouldn't let go at all, like he would stand there all night until it was morning, until they had to walk back to school and do it all over again.

Brendon remembers each one, remembers the different ways Ryan has wrapped his arms around him, the ways their toes have touched, the times Ryan's breath has ghosted across his face, the times Ryan has whispered his name and the times he's been completely silent.

Every night Ryan says, "I'll see you tomorrow Brendon," and every morning Ryan is there waiting for him.

\---

He knows it should be helping.

He knows how hard Ryan is trying, how good to Brendon he is being.

Knows that Ryan has a nightmare of his own he goes home to every night. He still sees the songs Ryan writes, angry and hopeless and raging against the things he can't control. He still sees the bruises, the hollow eyes from lack of sleep the nights Ryan stays up, waiting.

He tries to show that he appreciates Ryan's efforts. Tries to smile more, tries to laugh, to begin conversations instead of ending them with blank stares and panicked, gulping breaths.

He tries to believe him when Ryan promises to stay, to come back, to take care of him.

He tries because it's not that he doesn't think Ryan wants to. Even if he forgot everything else, he would still remember that day when Ryan saw a danger before Brendon did and threw himself in front of it to take on the damage Brendon caused against himself.

He tries not to believe it would all change if Ryan knew the truth. If he understood the kind of hurt he was offering to shield Brendon from. If he knew what was left of the person he was protecting.

He tries.

But when he wakes up shaking, most nights, or when he has to run to the bathroom the day he sees Liam Grey in the hallway, laughing with a group of his buddies, when he curls up against the toilet and cries, there's not much of anything Brendon has the courage to believe in.

\---

It's almost Christmas. It's been three weeks since Ryan came back.

Three weeks since... no.

The choir is performing in two days, but Brendon won't be. He's gone to all the practices, he knows all the songs, but he's never opened his mouth and sung.

Gerard encourages him gently, and Ryan pushes with a little more subtlety and a lot more force, but he only hangs his head and whispers that he can't.

Even Mikey pushes, in his way. His way is silent, it's mostly in the eyebrows, some shoulder work as well.

Brendon hates to disappoint them. Hates that he's doing it a little more every day.

Ray is the only one who doesn't ever ask Brendon anything other than the same question he asks everyday, and he is always seemingly content with the same answer.

Brendon doesn't quite know why Ray keeps asking. He doesn't think it's because Ray expects it to change. But he can't figure out why else it would be.

Still, every day, when they get to Mikey and Ray's, Ray takes him to the back yard and they work on his barren, occasionally frozen garden, while Mikey and Ryan talk.

And everyday Ray asks Brendon if he's all right, and everyday Brendon takes one moment for himself, one moment to tell the truth and he says, "Not really. No."

\---

On the last day of school before holidays, Brendon has a panic attack so bad Ryan has to half drag him into Gerard's empty classroom to try and calm him down. He puts on hand on Brendon's neck and the other over his heart and tells Brendon a story about the day when he was six years old and had a temper tantrum in a department store because there was something he wanted and he didn't know well enough yet not to ask. He tells Brendon that his father hit him, hard enough that he fell back, and hit his head against one of the shelves. He tells Brendon that was what made him stop crying.

Brendon's breath slows and his eyes open.

Ryan is standing before him, just watching.

When Ryan seems satisfied that Brendon is listening he says, "And that was pretty fucking stupid. Of me."

Brendon blinks.

Ryan bobs his head patiently. "That day taught me to shut up. Taught me to be quiet instead of asking for help." He shrugs. "I learned the wrong lesson."

Brendon swallows.

"You need to tell me what happened Bren. You need to tell me so you believe me when I say it doesn't matter."

Brendon's hands cling to his elbows, arms wrapped too tight around himself.

Ryan nods and says, "Okay. But I'm going to keep asking."

\---

Gerard writes Brendon's parents a permission slip, outlining a session of voice lessons the school is allegedly offering. His mother signs it without comment.

Just like that, Brendon has a a get-out-of-the-house-free card; he leaves every morning, sometimes even earlier than he would if he was still in school, gets picked up by Ryan, and bikes or walks to Mikey and Ray's.

They spend most of their time in the basement, but they go upstairs more as well. Mikey works for an indie record label, and seems to work what are both flexible and highly odd hours, and Ray's studio work pays well enough that it can be fairly sporadic, so they are often home.

Mikey is also apparently nuts for Christmas, and the house is decorated top to bottom. Mikey exhibits their pug Piglet in a variety of homemade Christmas sweaters; tinsel is everywhere; big, gaudy ornaments and giant snow globes are scattered across the house. It's so different from his mother's subdued, tasteful decorations, and Brendon likes to be up there with Mikey, watching him sparkle along with the ornaments and garlands.

They play games, video and board, usually at Ray's insistence. Brendon beats him frequently at Guitar Hero while Ryan and Mikey make fun of him on the inside. They never make noise, but you can see it in their faces.

Gerard comes over with marking, and occasionally a tiny and tattooed person named Frank, who moves more than Brendon has ever seen, and has an undeniably awesome laugh.

For those hours every day, Brendon can pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist. He can pretend there isn't school, and his parents and the disappointment, the disgust that looms there. He can pretend there isn't Ryan's dad, isn't hospitals and bills that he can't pay for.

He can pretend that there, with them, and with Ryan, he's home.

\---

Mikey and Ray insist that Ryan and Brendon come for a Christmas dinner on the twenty-third - Mikey explains that, because their parents always both worked, it is Way family tradition to have a huge meal on that day instead of on Christmas itself.

Brendon is overwhelmed to be invited to something they all keep referring to in passing as a "family meal" - although he suspects at least part of the motivation for their invite has to be that it serves an excellent excuse for Ray to feed Ryan.

Ryan's been getting thinner lately, and on someone who was very nearly too thin already, it's enough to frighten Brendon. He knows that usually Ryan intercepts his father's welfare checks in order to buy groceries and pay what bills they can - but for any number of reasons that doesn't always work, and he's seen Ryan get lean before, but never this bad. Maybe it's the winter, or his father's latest extended hospital stay. Ryan won't talk about it, but he allows Brendon to share his home-packed lunches and accepts Ray's fussing and insistence on providing meals and snacks whenever they show up at the house without comment.

Still, there's only so much he'll accept before Ryan closes up back into himself, hands wrapped around his chest, holding tight on his shoulder, eyes warning anyone who might try and come too close.

An excuse like Christmas allows for no such resistance, however, and Brendon can see that Ray is enormously grateful for that. The three days prior to the twenty-third Ray is almost always in the kitchen cooking, and the house never smells anything short of mouth-watering. There are always plates of cookies and baskets of mandarin oranges sitting on the kitchen table and in the basement, and Brendon never feels better until he sees Ryan eat at least half of them before they have to leave.

As much as they all try, it's not enough to keep Ryan's shoulder's from jutting out a little too sharp under his t-shirts, his pants from hanging too low on his hips. As such, it's not enough to stop Brendon's hands from clenching every time they say goodbye.

\---

He doesn't really have a present for Ryan. Partly because he can't get any of the things he wants to for him. A way out of his father's house, a safer school, four square meals a day, a new guitar, a way to promise he's going to stay and a way for Ryan to believe Brendon won't be taken from him.

Because as hard as he wishes, those things aren't in his power to give, so instead he's giving Ryan the only things he's ever had for him, but the things he's been too afraid to give this past month.

On the twenty-third of December - or as Mikey and Gerard call it - Waymas - Brendon will give Ryan the two things he seems to want from Brendon most.

His voice, and the truth.

\---

Gerard picks him up, because apparently there are rules against physical labor the like biking on Waymas. He's playing carols in his car, just instrumentals, filling in the words himself. Brendon almost joins in, but he's not ready yet. That will come later, but first it needs to happen between him and Ryan alone.

They pick up Ryan too, looking shifty and watchful at the corner of his block, arms folded, backpack ready. He's been keeping his guitar in the basement, lately. Says he does all his practicing there anyway. Brendon's a little afraid Ryan's father might have tried to pawn it, but he keeps that to himself.

When Ryan climbs into the backseat, he presses a hand against Brendon's shoulder, fingers curling around it. He leans forward in his seat so he can keep it there the whole ride to Mikey and Ray's.

When they get out of the car, Gerard introduces another Waymas rule - compulsory hugs.

Brendon is pretty sure he can handle that, although he opens his arms a little warily. He hasn't really touched anyone but Ryan since the incident. But when Gerard's arms close around him, keeping him secure, but holding loose enough that Brendon can easily get away, he finds he wants to do nothing of the kind.

He ends up clinging to Gerard rather desperately, trying to put into it all his bottomless gratitude and awe for this person who saw him and simply offered help and kindness at every single step of the way, this person who brought music into Brendon's life in a way it had never quite been before. This person who walked him through a door and pretty much gave him a home.

Gerard hugs him back reassuringly tight and whispers, "I'm so proud of you, kid," right before he lets go.

Ryan and Gerard's hug is quicker, but Ryan is left smiling at his toes when it's done.

They go inside and Ryan doesn't even have to be told, he just walks right up to Mikey and pulls him into a tight, lasting hug. Brendon almost feels bad for Ray, because judging from the look on Mikey's face, that's the best present he's getting this year.

He tries to make it up to Ray a little by pretty much tackling him, which was something Brendon used to always wish he had the courage to do. Ray actually catches him more than hugs him, picking him up off the ground a little and sort of spinning Brendon around.

For the seconds while Brendon's feet can't touch the ground, he feels weightless and completely safe.

When Ray puts him down he asks, "You doing all right, Brendon?"

And Brendon can finally smile and say, "Getting there."

\---

After completing their round of hugs, which included Ryan finding Piglet and spending five minutes telling her she was "the prettiest, most festive girl" and saying flattering things about Mikey's seaming on the sweater, Brendon and Ryan go down to the basement to exchange their gifts before the meal.

There are two plates of cookies and a basket of mandarins waiting for them. They smile at each other for a second before each grabbing a plate and a handful of oranges. They pile up on the couch and for a time do nothing but eat in contented silence.

Once he's eaten approximately twelve cookies, Ryan puts down the plate and clears his throat, clearly indicating it is time to proceed with the gift giving.

Brendon opens his mouth to start - singing or the truth, he hasn't even fully decided which - but Ryan shakes his head and says, "No. I want to go first. I want to earn it."

Brendon spasms a little and says, "I don't have anything that's--"

Ryan's fingers flick out and wrap around his wrist, holding just shy of tight. He squeezes gently. "Yeah, you do."

Brendon would protest, but for a split second Ryan looks nakedly hopeful - and even more remarkably - he looks shy. Brendon keeps his mouth shut and waits patiently.

Ryan rummages in his backpack for a few seconds, before easing out an explosion of ribbon and glitter. It takes him a second to realize there's a box under there, and Ryan's smiles turns sheepish.

"I kind of went a little overboard. Maybe."

Brendon eyes it. "Is it going to combust if I touch it?"

Ryan glares and shoves it at him, "Find out. Jerk."

Brendon smiles. "I trust you."

Ryan doesn't even try to hide his triumphant grin.

Brendon carefully unties or removes all bows and ribbons, making a little pile beside him on the couch. Ryan watches with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

"It might not be--" He says, when Brendon is about to pull off the top of the box.

His hands still. "What?"

Ryan shrugs awkwardly. "I think maybe it was a better idea... you know. In my head."

Brendon scrunches his face doubtfully. "It's never like that with your lyrics."

"You would say that."

"I would know that." Brendon amends firmly.

Ryan waves a hand. "Okay. Open it."

Brendon lifts up the top of the box. He stares down at the contents, almost not ready to believe what he's seeing.

Ryan starts talking as soon as he sees Brendon's face, but Brendon can't really hear him. He's too busy running his fingers along his present, hands shaking slightly as he gently removes it from the box.

It's a hoodie. Red and impossibly soft, with a deep front pocket and just a slash of silver, sparkling across the front. It looks like it will fit him perfectly, with just a little room to grow into.

It has tags. It's new.

He blinks at it wonderingly and tries to pay attention because Ryan is talking, he's actually telling Brendon something - not leaving words for him to make sense of later - and he really should be listening to that.

"...and I saw it and it just - it reminded me of you. The color's so bright - it stood out - just like you always did - do - bright but deep too, rich and solid against the gray walls of that place - and the silver because you're shiny - you sparkle, Brendon - I almost hated how much, at first. I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to have that shine taken away. And cherry because - because you're still - you're still new, Bren, no matter what, and a hoodie because you get cold, like I get cold - so I wanted something warm. For when I'm not there. I didn't try it on or anything - I made sure it was new stock, the first day, no one's ever even tried it on - but it looks warm. They promised me it would be. I..." He looks down at his hands. "Do you like it?"

Brendon is surprised he has breath left to say it, but he manages to say, "It's mine."

Ryan nods, jerky, so eager. "That's right. It's all yours. Only yours."

Brendon can't stop looking at it, but he makes himself say, "I don't have anything like this for you."

Ryan inches closer on the couch, eyes that same mix of hopeful and shy. "Yeah, you do. Something better."

Brendon shakes his head, "I don't - this was too much - Ryan, how did you afford--" He thinks of all the days Ryan must have gone without eating. How many groceries this shirt could have bought.

Ryan puts a hand to his lips. "Bren. Please. All I want is for you to like it. For you to keep it."

Brendon suspects he's about to be blinded by tears, so he fumbles to find Ryan's hand before he loses control of himself completely.

"It's mine," he repeats. He blinks until they're not clouded by moisture, and his eyes look into Ryan's. "Mine."

Ryan nods, and leans in, pressing his forehead against Brendon's. "Yours."

Brendon wants to stay like that forever, but there's more he has to say. He sucks in a reluctant breath and backs away slightly.

"You might not--"

Ryan shakes his head. "Please don't." He looks so sad, yet still so hopeful.

His eyes are practically screaming it. Believe in me.

He owes Ryan that. That and so much more.

"It was... I guess." His throat closes up. Even though he's finally ready for Ryan to know, he can't imagine speaking the words. Can't even choose one's he can stomach. "I'm ready to sing again," he says instead, chickening out.

Ryan's face is transformed by surprise, happiness. Then he seems to forcibly restrain himself. "Only if it's for you. I don't need that from you. It was never about that - Brendon, I need you to know that. I heard you sing and I was so happy, because I realized I had something to give you - not because I saw that there was something I could take from you. Brendon. You have a beautiful voice. But that's... it's pretty far from the most beautiful thing about you."

Brendon thinks his heart might be trying to make a break for it in his throat. He holds up his other hand and Ryan's fingers come up immediately to link with his.

"Liam Grey raped me." The words fall out of his mouth, unexpected, unbidden. He'd never even thought about it like that, in those terms. Until this moment.

Ryan's fingers tighten. He doesn't let go. He holds on.

"I know."

Brendon's eyes pop open, "You know - you knew?"

Ryan nods. "There were rumors, high school is a fucking gossip pit. And I wouldn't have believed them but you... the way you carried yourself - and the times when you saw him - it made you sick. I didn't know what else it could have been."

Brendon's head is spinning trying to process this all at once. That Ryan knew. That he stayed. That he's still here right now.

"But you... then why?"

Ryan squeezes his hand. "Because you needed to tell me. You needed to make that choice for yourself - to trust me, to trust yourself. You needed to believe you were worth staying for - worth fighting for. No matter what."

Brendon wants to believe, he wants to give Ryan that most of all.

"I love you," Brendon hears himself blurt. He follows it up with a horrified squeak, the fervent desire to dive into the couch cushions, to cover his face.

But Ryan won't let him. He holds Brendon's face in his hands, not even letting him duck his eyes away.

Ryan smiles at him a little. "Brendon. I'm going to kiss you now."

Brendon stutters, "But I'm - I'm not any good at--"

Ryan ends his protests with a soft press of his lips against Brendon's. It only lasts for a second, but Brendon feels it down to his toes.

Ryan smiles and says, "And now I'm going to kiss you again."

Brendon nods and meets Ryan half-way.

When their lips part, Ryan presses one quick kiss to the side of Brendon's cheek and then leans away slightly so their eyes can meet when he asks,

"Say you'll be mine?"

Brendon bites his lip, fighting off tears. "Always."

the end

Epilogue

Approximately fifteen kisses and several exchanges of vows later later, they are reminded that it is still, in fact, Waymus.

First they hear the door open and the sound of Piglet plodding down the stairs, which Brendon thinks is a pretty dirty trick, no doubt on Mikey's part, because Ryan is completely distracted from his rightful place kissing Brendon by his apparently physical imperative to coo all over Piglet once she comes into view.

It's a great personal victory for Brendon when he eventually manages to coax Ryan's attention back to himself, and he and Ryan have eased themselves into a comfy horizontal position--excellent for kissing, Brendon is discovering-- right around the time Ray yells down the stairs, "Guys, dinner!"

Brendon moves to comply, but Ryan makes a little noise, and Brendon has to chase it, tongue flicking against Ryan's lips.

A few minutes or about five kisses later, they hear Ray's voice again, "Um, guys. Dinner. Like, really."

Brendon doesn't want to go anywhere ever that isn't tucked safe underneath Ryan, but it's Mikey and Gerard and Ray, and Ray's been cooking for ages, so of course they have to go upstairs. Ryan picks Piglet up and carries her, but he still manages to hold Brendon's hand the whole way.

When they get into the dinning room, Ray grins, Mikey smirks, and Gerard flaps, but Ryan is suitably distracted by the fact that there is so much food it takes up a whole table, and they have to go to a smaller table at the end of the room to actually eat. Ray plates everyone's foods - he piles Ryan's highest of all - maybe after Mikey's because Mikey is Ray's, after all, Brendon decides you can hardly fault a guy for that. And anyway, Ray knows all Ryan's favorites - having carefully cataloged them through crafty observance and clever application of Mikeyway over the past month or so. Brendon is certainly not about to claim Ryan is hard done-by, not by these people.

So they sit down, and instead of doing anything like say grace they sing before they start to eat and Brendon finds himself singing loudest of all and he doesn't stop, even though Gerard looks suspiciously like he's about to cry. Instead he just puts his happiness into the song and Gerard does the same, and they all sing, even Ryan, and their voices sound beautiful together.

Just before they start eating, but after they've sung, seemingly because he can't restrain himself anymore, Gerard just sort of announces that Liam Grey is being expelled - ostensibly for too much fighting - and there's stunned silence for a moment, and Brendon swallows back a lump pressing painfully against his throat. Brendon wants to say thank you to Gerard. He doesn't even know how, but Gerard just smiles at him like he knows anyway, and Brendon manges only manages to stave off tears because Ryan holds on tight to Brendon's hand under the table the whole meal.

Once they're done eating, they go to the living room to unwrap more presents, and because it's one way he does know to thank Gerard, Brendon sings more as he assists Mikey in handing out gifts, and even uses his sadeyes to stop Ryan from protesting when Ray gives Ryan one of his guitars as a present. Brendon waits to put on his hoodie until after the meal, because he couldn't bear to risk getting anything on it, despite Ryan's amused reminders that it could actually get washed, that it could get a little messy but it'd still be Brendon's. That's not even the point, but Ryan doesn't press his objection, and the hidden smile at the corners of his lips tells Brendon Ryan understands Brendon's reasons just fine.

As they unwrap presents and eat cookies, Brendon pulls the fabric, which smells mostly new and just faintly like Ryan, more tightly around himself, and looking around at all these people, he thinks, "Mine for keeps."


	2. we could get along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends and new beginnings.

\---

Brendon's family kicked him out in the middle of his senior year. He and Ryan's relationship had gotten to the point where hiding it was pretty much a joke, but it wasn't until his brother actually saw him kissing Ryan good-bye a block from Brendon's house that his parents were - in their words - _forced to take action_.

That action landed Brendon in an apartment he never would have been able to afford if Ray's face hadn't gotten pinched like it did the rare moments he was really - _really_ scared - and in the face of that, no amount of pride, not even the combination of Brendon's and Ryan's - was enough to deny Ray the ability to give the help he so needed to. If that had failed, Mikey's crossed arms and Gerard's wide, anxious eyes were right behind, so really. There was no choice in the matter.

Ryan took what he could carry and joined Brendon the first night, and every night after that.

In addition to their classes, they both worked, trying to rely on Mikey, Ray, and Gerard's help as little as possible. They always called it _help_ , never charity, because the one time Ryan had used that word, tentatively, shamefully, Mikey had broken a plate, just by dropping it hard into the sink, but the message was clear enough.

So now, even though it still caught Ryan by surprise, most moments, there was Ray, and Gerard, and Mikey, there was their basement full of guitars and half-written songs; and there were pictures of them on the wall in the front hallway and on the mantle, and all his and Brendon's favorite kinds of food in the fridge, just waiting for them to come and visit. And even more than that there was Brendon, and his big smiles, no matter how tired he got, and his hand, always warm and strong in Ryan's. There were the two hooks in the foyer of their tiny apartment where Ryan and Brendon's jackets hung side by side and there were the rugs Brendon found at the goodwill to keep Ryan's feet warm and the plants he always bought for a dollar that he managed to bring back to life.

They even had a fish, named Elijah, because Brendon insisted the fish had the same eyes as the actor by the same name. Brendon told Elijah stories about his day and the customers who came into the Smoothie Hut every night when he came home while Ryan curled up in the blanket beside them and listened too.

He'd never expected it, but somehow Ryan had managed to stumble and luck his way into a real home, and as much as he had always quietly, desperately dreamed for one, he'd never considered the possibility of what it would be like to have to leave it behind.

\---

University applications, in Brendon's opinion, completely sucked.

For one thing, he felt they asked him to be a lot more awesome than he was to even be _considered_ good enough for the school's they were the cruel gateway to.

For another, they made Ryan clench his hands into fists and freak out on a regular basis.

Schools in Vegas needed to be better, and soon.

\---

"We're only going somewhere if we both get in," Ryan said for the hundredth time. That day.

Brendon nodded. "I know."

"I mean it, Brendon. I don't care how good a school it is. Only together." It was a warning and a promise, all wrapped up in tightly spoken syllables.

Brendon sighed and put his fingers to the foreboding creases Ryan's frown was making on his forehead. "Ryan. Do you see me disagreeing with you?"

Ryan sighed too. "Not yet. But we haven't gotten any letters yet."

Brendon kissed Ryan's eyelids. "We only applied to places in the same cities. We're bound to both get in somewhere."

Ryan shivered and huddled closer against Brendon's side. "What about Mikey and..."

"We'll talk to them on the phone, we'll write letters. Ryan, come on. You know this one. We're family now, remember?"

Ryan looked at him, and Brendon knew he was calling both of them on their lack of anything resembling healthy experience in that area.

Brendon shook his head. "The kind you pick, the kind you make out of people who actually love you. Ryan," he pressed their foreheads together, a long-standing argument winner for Brendon. It had originally been Ryan's move, but Brendon was pretty good at recycling. "They love us. We love them. Who the fuck knows how it happened, how we got lucky enough for it to keep happening, but we are a family, the five of us."

"And Frank," Ryan insisted, somewhat reluctantly.

Brendon smiled, "And Frank."

Frank and Gerard's relationship had settled into a close and passionate friendship, after several failed attempts at romance. But Ryan was right. Frank wasn't around as much, but he was family too.

"I just... it's not the same. Phones. Letters."

Brendon chuckled. "Ross, you know you'll love writing them letters. You'll probably buy fountain pens for that exact purpose."

Ryan glared at him, but looked slightly less terrified. "Well, it's not like I'm going to half-ass it."

Brendon all-out laughed at that. "I would never have expected anything of the kind."

\---

In the end, they both got in to schools in Chicago, New York and Portland. Brendon was going for music, Ryan was planning for a degree in English.

Brendon had already won an external scholarship because Gerard pushed him to apply and pretty much co-wrote his application, and Ryan was offered full funding from the school in Chicago because Ryan was a fucking genius.

They held their acceptance letters in their hands and stared at each other, laughing until the hysteria wore down enough that they could bike to Mikey and Ray's and tell them the news.

They called Gerard first to make sure he could come and, not surprisingly, he was already there.

As soon as they walked into the living room where Mikey, Ray and Gerard all sat, Ryan started staring hopefully at the floor like he was imploring it to swallow him whole, so Brendon figured he was pretty much on his own, announcement wise.

But as soon as he opened his mouth, Ryan's eyes flicked back up, he grabbed Brendon's hand, and said, with pride, "We got in to universities. I even got offered a scholarship from one of them. We can... we can actually go. To school. It's... it's because of you guys - so much and I just - thank you."

Gerard squeaked and hugged them at once, and Ray's hair bounced happily as he jumped from the couch. Even Mikey's face split into a truly rare grin.

Once the hugging was generally complete, (Gerard insisted on hugging them both again once Ray and Mikey had each had a turn) Ryan said, with a sudden return of his reluctance, "So we... it's the University of Chicago. Where we'd be... you know, going. So we'll be moving - but we - I promise we'll write all the time and when we can afford it we'll call and--"

"Screw that."

Ryan stopped mid-sentence, blinking at Ray.

"What?" Brendon helped him out, warily.

"Screw phone calls. We're coming with you."

Ryan's jaw hung open and Brendon felt his skin start to buzz, shock and blind, euphoric hope. Still, he said again, "What?"

Mikey shrugged. "We're from _Jersey_. I mean. What do you think we're even doing in Vegas?"

Ryan blinked. Brendon shook his head. The thought had honestly never occurred to him.

Ray thumbed in Gerard's direction. "Gee was just out of school, and it was the first place that offered him a real job - actually teaching music. And it wasn't like Mikey was going to live in a different fucking state from his brother." The way Ray said it, it sounded like he'd had an equally strong reaction against such a possibility.

"You go where your family goes," Gerard summed up, still beaming at them proudly.

"But... you... you have jobs... and a _house_." Ryan stammered blankly.

Gerard waved a hand. "I've been teaching for almost six years. I have good references, I'll be able to find another job."

"And I can find recording work anywhere, plus. Chicago." Ray said like that explained more than Brendon frankly felt it did.

Mikey elaborated slightly, "We know lots of people in the music scene down there." He was starting to smile a different smile. Still proud of them around the edges, but starting to be a different kind of excited, too. "Yeah. It'll be good to see them again. Good to get back there."

Ryan looked like he was close to cleaning out his ears to make sure he was hearing this right. Brendon could almost see his hands wanting to rub confusedly at his eyes.

"So... you'd really. Come with us. Just like that."

Ray frowned a little, and Mikey shrugged again. His 'hey, careful' shrug. "Hardly _just like that_. You guys have been part of the family for almost three years now. That doesn't stop mattering just cause you have to go somewhere new."

"I wasn't-- letters!" Ryan protested a little frantically.

Gerard smiled softly. "I was a little freaked out when I got the job to move here. But they gave me the talk too. I fought them on it and everything but come on, it's Mikey. And Ray. Have you met more stubborn people, aside from yourself?"

Helplessly, Ryan's face transformed into grin. "Just give in, huh?"

Gerard nodded sagely. "It's your only defense."

And just like that, Ryan's home went mobile.

\---

Brendon assumed they would just look for a new place to live online, but Mikey immediately put the kibosh on that idea.

"Yeah, no. We'll fly up there for a couple days, house hunt. It'll be fun."

Ryan opened his mouth to protest but Mikey did that thing he did with his face that always made Ryan listen obediently.

"Think of it as a graduation present, if you want. Ray can't come --"

Ray nodded and said, "Work;" it sounded like the kind of work he was excited about.

"But Gee has some interviews next week, so he'd be going anyway."

"But that still - I mean, we can look at pictures and stuff. Of the apartments. It's fine." Brendon found himself saying.

Mikey waved a hand. "Pictures don't tell you what a place _feels_ like. And they don't give you a sense of the neighborhood, what's close and where you can go get coffee in the mornings. No, going in person is better."

"Let us do this," Gee said softly. "Come on. Me and Mikey'll have more fun with you guys there anyway."

Ryan smiled a little, and Brendon knew it was decided. He smiled too. "Well, can't argue with that."

\---

Ryan had never been on a plane before, and as such, wasn't aware he was afraid of them until they were already up in the air. One minute he was murmuring normally to Mikey, and then suddenly he was gripping Brendon's hand almost hard enough to hurt, eyes wide and surprised.

Brendon made a soft, soothing noise and said, "Hey. Nervous flyer?"

Ryan nodded shakily. "I guess."

On his other side, Mikey leaned in. "I'm totally not going to tell you about how more people die in car crashes than in plane crashes - cause like, who the fuck cares. Planes are huge and in the SKY. But I am going to make you listen to the Misfits with me, cool?"

Sharing earbuds with Mikey was a rare honor. He was pretty religious about getting the full effect of the sound.

Ryan managed a weak smile, and took one of the headphones gratefully.

\---

Ryan pretty much fell in love with Chicago the minute he stepped out of the airport. His mouth hung open a little, taking things in, and he kept pointing at the buildings, the trees, sometimes even the people, in a kind of helpless, "did you SEE that?" way the whole cab ride.

Brendon smiled along with Ryan's excitement, but didn't quite get what he was supposed to be seeing. It was just a city.

"This is like... a _real_ place," Ryan said, voice filled with low-level awe.

Mikey laughed, but didn't disagree.

\---

House-hunting was Brendon's new favorite.

He especially loved going to places that were still furnished by the previous tenants, and listening while Mikey and Ryan quietly mocked the people's tastes. Gerard also got really excited about random things like themed cookie jars and the different ways people organized their bathrooms. All in all, it was a pretty awesome time.

Not that they were finding anything he or Ryan were remotely interested in living in that they could actually afford.

That part was less awesome.

Mikey wasn't having much more luck in terms of finding an actual house for him and Ray. Gerard was on the fence about whether he wanted an apartment or a condo, and his attention was mostly focused on the interviews anyway.

There was one school he was particularly interested in; it sounded like their music program pretty much needed to be built from the ground up. It was the sort of thing that made Gerard's eyes light up, just to talk about and on their fourth day in Chicago, Gerard got the job.

They went out for celebratory fries and milkshakes at a little spot one of Mikey's Chicago friends had recommended.

The milkshake was so thick and good it made Ryan slide down in the booth, making noises that Brendon felt he should be the only one lucky enough to hear.

"Oh my god," Ryan said when he finally came up for air. "We need to come here every week."

Gerard was a little busy with the six fries in his mouth, but he nodded enthusiastically.

Mikey quirked his lips and Brendon and Brendon smiled back.

"Guess we need to start looking for places in this neighborhood then."

\---

It was a nice day, not quite summer, with a crisp spring breeze still in the air, so they ended up just walking around, looking for sale signs on houses, and vacancy signs on apartment buildings.

They weren't finding much, just walking aimlessly, until Mikey and Ryan made the exact noise in unison and stopped in their tracks, causing Brendon and Gerard (who were walking behind them) to collide into them.

Once they disentangled themselves, they got a look at what Mikey and Ryan were staring at, mouths open.

It was a house, but it was a house masquerading as a castle. There was a hedge, just low enough for Brendon to see over; the door was raspberry red, the house itself was limestone, and there was what actually appeared to be ivy growing up the side of it.

It had a turret.

Mikey kept pointing at it and then making huge eyes in Gerard's direction, like he was expected to do something about it at once.

Gerard rubbed his hands together worriedly. "There's no sign."

Ryan made another noise.

Gerard looked immediately contrite. "But we... we could... still ask? Maybe."

Brendon couldn't stop looking at Ryan. He looked so... _hungry_.

He found himself walking into the yard without consciously planning to do so. When he looked behind him, he saw that they were all following with with the same helpless compulsion.

He knocked.

A slightly frazzled looking woman opened the door.

She blinked at them. "Selling something?"

"Um, no... not... actually were kind of hoping you were." Brendon stammered.

She put a hand on her hip and looked at him skeptically.

"This is - we understand this is pretty crazy, or will sound like it to you. But... can be buy your house?" Gerard piped up from behind.

She burst into laughter, which wasn't that surprising. When she followed it up by saying, "Thank _god,_ " well. That pretty much was.

\---

As it turned out, Melony (and her husband Greg) had been planning to put their house on the market that summer, because they were both taking jobs out of the country.

Walking through the house with her that afternoon, they only wanted it more. Ryan and Mikey had actually held hands and squeezed ecstatically when they entered the bright, sunny kitchen. There was a small room in the turret, and there was a window seat looking out onto the street. Brendon could see Ryan writing there without even closing his eyes.

There were problems. The house was old, the furnace acted up. It was also large. Much too large for Mikey and Ray on their own. It was also too expensive.

Mikey was having a slight panic attack over the price, Brendon could tell. He wasn't even breathing faster, but his pupils were too large, and his hands were moving more than they normally did.

Gerard covered Mikey's hands with his. He said, "Let's go back to the hotel, talk it over."

Mikey nodded, and Gerard and Brendon managed to get him and Ryan out of the house and into a cab.

\---

As soon as they got out of the cab and back into their hotel room Gerard said, "We could afford it together."

Mikey blinked at him.

Ryan remained curled into Brendon's side.

"With my salary, and yours and Ray's. We could afford it then."

Mikey's face lit up, briefly, but then he said, a little forlornly, "Lots of wasted space still."

Brendon pulled Ryan tighter against his side. "We could... help out with that. And, I mean. Money too. We could pay rent. Obviously."

Now both Gerard and Mikey took turns, blinking in confusion.

Brendon shrugged. "Well, I mean, I assume Ryan would be moving in there anyway. Like, he's clearly going to smuggle himself in even if you DON'T buy the place. And it's not like you guys aren't moving all the way here just to support us. It's kind of the only thing that makes sense."

"You don't want..." Gerard waved a hand. "Like, privacy? You guys are young - and we know it's important to be independent and--"

Ryan made a strange, strangled scoffing noise. "You go where your family goes, remember?"

Gerard's reply was taken over by a huge smile, and Mikey's cheeks actually got a little pink with happiness.

"I'll call Ray and tell him the news."

\---

Ray's only question was, "You like the place?" and Mikey's affirmative was more than strong enough for him to agree.

They - mostly Mikey - spent the next little while dealing with the bank and having an inspector come in and check the house over.

Brendon crossed his fingers and hoped, and by the time they left Chicago two days later, they had a home to come back to.

\---

They ended up deciding to go to their graduation, basically because Ryan insisted.

When the discussion came up, Brendon casually told Mikey they weren't really planning on going, because he honestly thought they weren't, but as soon as he spoke, Ryan set his shoulders and said, "Yeah, we are."

Brendon blinked at him in confusion and Ryan shrugged tightly. "It's a rite of passage."

Brendon simply closed his mouth and nodded, because Ryan had that look that meant he would yell and storm out of a room if pushed any further, and Mikey always looked sad and discouraged when that happened. Brendon wasn't a huge fan of it either.

So Brendon left it, and they carried on with dinner, and the topic didn't come up again until they were lying in bed that night.

Ryan pressed his face into Brendon's neck and said, "We survived that place. We're getting out and we still have each other. We have people... people who'll come and clap and be proud. I just..."

Brendon nodded and ran his fingers up and down Ryan's spine. "I want you to have that too."

"Both of us," Ryan murmured.

Brendon smiled in the dark. "Both of us."

\---

So they went. And Gerard, Ray, and Mikey all clapped, and cheered, and at one point Ray may even have whistled. Frank was out of the city, but Brendon sort of imagined the whistle was from him.

When it was over, they left the school and as they drove away, Brendon realized they never had to go back. Ever.

He grinned at the same moment Ryan did, and they held hands as the building receded in the distance.

\---

On their last night in their apartment Ryan fucked Brendon slowly, drawing out each movement, taking time enough that they could remember each one.

They held onto each other and lay awake until morning came.

\---

They took their bikes out once the sun was up, and rode through their old neighborhoods, the places they'd gone and loved and hated all throughout high school.

They even stopped, almost in front of Brendon's house. Close enough to see.

Ryan was still on his bike, but standing, and he walked it and himself over to Brendon, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"You want to go in?" He kept any emotion he might have about this one way or another out of the question.

Brendon looked at the house for one more minute, imagining himself coming in and out of that door as he had so many times, wondering which members of his family might currently be inside, and then resolutely shook his head.

"No." Then, "Let's get out of this shit town."

Ryan clapped him on the shoulder, and they biked away without looking back.

\---

Moving was not Brendon's new favorite, but somehow, and largely through the magic of Ray's ability to plan and/or hire movers, they got it done.

Moving across state lines and considerable distance with a dog, two cats (who Ray and Mikey had acquired the year before) AND a goldfish (Ryan had blinked stonily and said, "What the fuck. Of course we're bringing Elijah," before anyone had even so much as _suggested_ they leave him behind) was also not Brendon's favorite. But they managed to get that done, too.

Actually being in their new house? Being home and just.... just walking into a given room and occasionally finding Mikey or a pet unexpectedly there, tripping over boxes and having Serious Discussions about where things could go, family meals and watching Gerard and Ryan write together in the sun room (which was what they were calling the turret room), having coffee while they blinked at each other in slowly growing recognition every morning, playing guitar hero with Ray while Ryan and Mikey protested by hanging out and muttering to each in the kitchen, exploring their new neighborhood, shopping for second hand furniture and going on aimless, self-guided tours of their new campus while Ryan practically skipped with glee at things like the sheer _size_ of the library.... all that? On the other hand? His absolute favorite.

\---

Mikey had a friend named Pete, and a friend named Bob, and Brendon was given to understand that they were Mikey's very favorite things about moving to Chicago.

Bob remained largely elusive and mysterious their first week in Chicago, but Pete became a semi-staple of the house upon arrival.

Pete was in a kind of hardcore/pop fusion band that was apparently very popular within the Chicago scene, and he was the one who got Mikey his job working for the label Pete's band was singed to. Brendon was willing to like Pete because of that, but the slightly baffled, adoring looks Ryan gave Pete whenever he wandered into their house made Brendon feel slightly less benevolent towards him.

It wasn't... Pete was obviously crazy, which Brendon understood sometimes appealed to Ryan, and he was a writer, and he had chewed up fingernails, and there was something hopelessly genuine under his asshole grin and his more explicit douchebag tendencies. And Mikey liked him. So obviously he was an alright guy.

And more than that, Pete was clearly charmed by Ryan, which Brendon wasn't used to, but he could at least respect Pete for his decent taste. He also seemed completely devoted to the short red-headed guy who sometimes came along on Pete's visits. Although possibly in a platonic-lifemate sort of way. Pete was kind of hard to figure out like that.

Mostly, Brendon believed Ryan loved him. He believed it in his guts, in his heart. He felt it everywhere, every time Ryan looked at him, every time their fingers touched.

So he wasn't jealous. At least, not like that.

It was just... Ryan _liked_ Pete. He followed him around. He talked to him about things that Brendon had usually been left to fill in on his own. They were... _friends_.

Slowly but surely, Ryan's life - _Brendon's_ life - their world - was growing. It wasn't even a bad thing. But it was definitely taking some getting used to.

\---

They moved in the middle of June, and while Mikey and Ray were already working, Brendon, Ryan and Gerard were still pretty much on vacation. This resulted in a lot of morning walks to the park near their house so Ryan could feed a variety of birds while Gerard kept a safe distance, a lot of early evenings spent in the backyard with Ray, working on getting the garden ready for next year (while Gerard AND Ryan watched from a safe - and indoor - distance). It meant a lot of trips to investigate the best the city had to offer in used bookstores, comic stores and music sellers and venues.

Ryan tended not to go along on such excursions, having developed a habit of writing alone most mornings, always showing Brendon what he had come up with for songs by the afternoon, but for Brendon, it often also meant a lot of mid-morning trips to the Starbucks a block from their house with Gerard.

Jon Walker was Brendon's favorite thing about this particular Starbucks. His second favorite thing was that it was only a block from their house, and his third favorite thing was the way Gerard smiled with deep, full-bodied relief every time it came into view on their morning sojourn, but his very favorite thing about it was definitely Jon.

Once, Brendon had kind of liked everyone he met by default until they did something to change his opinion.

A few years with Ryan, and some experiences he still had nightmares about that he woke up from shaking, had pretty much robbed him of that sensibility.

He wasn't even that he didn't like people, really. He just almost never trusted them.

But from the first easy, slightly dopey smile Jon greeted him with, Brendon couldn't help but like, and indeed, even trust, Jon Walker. So much so that he occasionally went there by himself to lounge around the coffee-bar and bug Jon between customers. Jon was sweet, he was gentle, he liked good music and he made excellent coffee which he sometimes gave Brendon for free. If Pete was Ryan's first Chicago friend, then Brendon was tentatively hopeful that Jon would be his.

So it was unfortunate that the first time Ryan actually met him happened the way it did.

Brendon was standing outside the 'bucks, squinting against the wind - when suddenly someone's hand was on his shoulder and for all that he was okay - that he was so much better than he used to be - Brendon still basically jumped out of his skin at the unexpected touch of someone his body didn't recognize as either Ryan, Gerard, Mikey, Ray or Frank.

Jon, as it turned out to be, immediately stepped back, but it just so happened that Ryan turned the corner and into view the same instant as Jon touched Brendon.

He had Jon shoved up against the side of the building before Brendon's heart had even slowed down enough to let him speak.

He sucked in a few breaths and finally manged a stern, "Ryan."

Ryan let Jon go, but continued to glare at him unapologetically.

Brendon wasn't going to say anything to excuse Ryan's behavior, it was his right. But he still smiled weakly at Jon after Ryan draped an arm around his shoulders and he couldn't help but sigh with relief. It wasn't that he thought Jon would hurt him. But his nerves needed a little reassurance, and Ryan's touch was pretty much the only thing that worked for that.

But instead of looking offended, Jon said, "Jeez. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you like that." He sounded hopelessly genuine.

Ryan eyed him with slightly less disdain.

Jon smiled, and held out a hand, in a friendly wave. "Jon Walker. Nice to meet you."

\---

Ryan didn't exactly warm to Jon right away, but they settled into something that was half like friendship and half like a carefully maintained truce. They skirmished over such things as whether or not Jon was allowed to touch Brendon _ever_ \- this was debated mostly in the eye brow region and eventually settled by Brendon's reaching over and touching Jon's fingers slightly as he took his cup of coffee out of Jon's hands - and whether or not Jon was allowed to give them free coffee. It seemed to bother Ryan for reasons not even Brendon fully understood, but it wasn't like they couldn't mostly afford it on their own, and he'd felt bad about taking advantage of Jon's continual generosity anyway, so that battle Ryan fought and won with ease.

Despite these and other conflicts, spoken and unspoken, it wasn't as though they were without things in common; positive points of contact existed between them. They got along best, Ryan at his easiest with Jon, when they were talking about music. Jon loved the Beatles, and Bob Dylan, and so much of the music that had helped Ryan get through high school, so he couldn't help but get caught up talking to Jon about it. They'd argue for hours when Jon's shift was done and he was just sitting with them, or sometimes even when he was working but the place was mostly dead. It wasn't enough to stop Ryan from eying Jon suspiciously every time he got in too close and made Brendon's breath involuntarily catch, just memories, but it did help that that was happening less and less.

It also helped that one afternoon, when Ryan was carefully releasing a little information about them, trusting and testing Jon with it, telling him about how they'd moved with as Ryan put it "half of Vegas" along with them to Chicago (before he went on to describe their actual family), that Jon's eyes lit up and he immediately asked, "What are the cats' names?" Not even Ryan had been able to stop himself from smiling at that.

But still, Brendon can admit that they likely wouldn't have become anything like real friends if it hadn't been for Pete.

Pete never came into the 'bucks, because evidently he was a vegan in a way that made entering that place too tempting, or some sort of Pete logic of that nature, but he occasionally loitered outside their house when no one was home, just waiting for someone to show up and let him in, and on one such occasion Jon happened to be walking with them, not quite walking them home, but going their way.

Pete practically leaped off the steps to greet them, like a happy puppy, and it made Ryan laugh, light and pleased like Pete's affection always did. But after Pete hugged Ryan, which was something that still took Brendon by surprise, every time Ryan let him, he turned immediately to Jon and exclaimed, "JWalk!" And proceeded to hug Jon almost off the ground.

Ryan leaned back a little, eyes wide and assessing.

When Pete released a smiling and relatively unsurprised Jon, he grinned at Ryan, saying, "You brought me my JWalk! Where did you find him, Ryan Ross? He's been hiding from me. Absolutely refuses to be in my band. Something about college, and a "job" which is clearly bullshit."

Ryan blinked. "Um."

Brendon took his hand, just because.

Pete's face flickered with understanding and then he smiled again, reaching out to put one arm around Jon's shoulders and the other around Ryan's as he ushered them into the house saying grandly, "Let me tell you a little story I liked to call Why Jon Walker is Awesome, and Would Probably Rather be Rescuing Kittens Right Now, by Pete Wentz."

And that was pretty much that for Jon's vetting period.

\---

Ryan still didn't let Jon buy them drinks after that, but he smiled at Jon sometimes, and there was laughter in his voice when they fought about such matters as which Beatles song was most crucial to the human race at large, and generally speaking, Brendon had to accept he had another thing in his life to be grateful to Pete Wentz for. The surprised, dismissive look Pete always gave him when Brendon tried to express his gratitude, maybe more than anything else, made it impossible for him to continue to mind.

\---

Then came the day when Brendon was just innocently sipping his-totally-paid-for-by-himself-coffee when suddenly Ryan made a noise low and kneeing in his throat and lurched forward like the ground had shifted under his seat.

Brendon grabbed his shoulder and said, "What, Ryan? What?" And followed Ryan's eyes when Ryan seemingly couldn't respond.

He was looking at a boy standing by the counter. A guy, Brendon supposed. Tallish, with kind of suspiciously enticing hips, soft brown hair falling into his face, half-covering what Brendon had to objectively acknowledge was probably the prettiest grin he had ever seen.

He had no idea where it came from, but for an instant, Brendon absolutely _hated_ him. Whoever he was.

"Spencer," Ryan said in a half-broken, awed tone. "That's Spencer."

Something like shock that tasted like fear burst open in Brendon's chest. "Ryan, what do you - I mean how can you--"

"His smile. That's his smile."

And then Ryan was up, he was walking across the store, and Brendon could do nothing but scramble to follow.

He caught up in time for the guy to say, "RYAN!" And to watch his smile turn into something it made his sly grin from before seem laughably plain. There was joy so clear in his face it almost hurt Brendon to look at it.

They moved at the same time, and Brendon watched as Ryan was momentarily enveloped, face disappearing into Spencer's chest.

They only sort of let go of each other, standing slightly apart and beaming, hands still holding onto each other's arms.

"How did you--"

"Where did you--"

"How long have you--"

"Spence, I can't---"

" _ **You**_ were the Ryan that Jon--"

"Missed you so much."

Spencer grinned and kicked the ground. "You too."

They were silent for a moment, but quickly went back to grinning at each other and trading half sentences until Jon, behind the counter, coughed and Ryan snapped out of himself and said, "Oh. Spencer, this is Brendon."

Spencer smiled and held out a hand, "Hi Brendon, I'm Spencer. Me and Ryan were best friends when we were kids."

Brendon barely - just barely bit back a sharp, _I know who you are_. Instead he extended his hand and shook with Spencer, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"Brendon." He didn't say anything more. What he was to Ryan felt suddenly, frighteningly uncertain.

Ryan smiled at him, a flicker of concern, but then he got distracted by Spencer again and they were off, bumping shoulders and catching up in rapid, nearly incomprehensible shorthand.

Brendon didn't even follow them back to their table, just lingered at the counter, watching. He suspected his mouth was probably hanging open a little, but there wasn't really anything he could force himself to do about it just then.

He was interrupted, finally, by Jon, who placed a cup of coffee down beside him and said, "Easy does it, Bren."

Brendon looked at the coffee, blinking at it blankly. "I didn't order this."

Jon shook his head. "Nope. And you're not paying for it either. But it's your favorite. I even put in an extra shot of the mocha syrup."

Brendon was about to say, "Ryan won't--" but then he pretty much got the point. He swallowed, and then picked up the cup. "Thanks, Jon."

\---

Spencer had a class, because apparently he was extremely driven, and was taking summer courses to graduate early, or something awesome like that, so eventually they had to leave. Ryan walked home in a silent, blissful daze, and Brendon just walked beside him, trying not to cling too obviously to his side.

All throughout dinner, Ryan talked animatedly about Spencer, and how he was the _same_ \- by which Ryan meant still completely awesome and funny and grouchy - and how amazing it was that they found each other again, like what were the chances? While Brendon sat silently at his side and held onto to the hand Ryan wasn't gesturing delightedly with, gripping it tightly, although apparently not tight enough for Ryan to notice.

When they finished up, Mikey did a thing with his shoulders and nose, and the next thing Brendon knew, Ray was guiding him out of the kitchen while Mikey was telling Ryan, just shy of sternly, that he needed his help washing the dishes.

Ray took him all the way out of the house, onto the front steps, where he sat down beside Brendon and said, "Me and Mikey used to be in a band, in college. I mean, we were all in a lot of bands, and some of them never even played shows, but him and me were in a band called Ray Gun Jones that actually played, practiced, had our shit together, just a little. Anyway, Pete was in a different band back then, before he found Patrick, and they were more in the hardcore scene, but they toured, and they came to Jersey one summer, for a few shows, and Pete just ended up staying, sleeping on people's couches and shit, all summer long. They met in the scene, at one of our shows or theirs - I can't even remember now, and him and Mikey, they fit right into each other's pockets. Like, the minute they met it was like they had a secret language, jokes and favorite places to go together, instant connection. And he was still Mikey - so I loved him, even then, but I wasn't... I didn't have any claim on him like that, and anyway, it was mostly. That wasn't even what bothered me. Just the way he made Mikey smile, really. How easily, how often. His real smile, you know?"

Brendon nodded. He did know. It was a special thing.

"So," Ray said shrugging simply. "I kind of wanted to hate him for awhile. Pete. For doing that. But it was hard, because Mikey was _smiling_. That didn't happen enough back then - it still doesn't happen enough. Kind of make it difficult to hold onto my anger at him."

Brendon sighed. He got it, and all, appreciated what Ray was trying to say. He just wasn't entirely sure his and Ray's stories weren't going to have pretty opposite endings.

\---

Brendon clung to Ryan that night, silent, and Ryan didn't try to make him talk. He just looked Brendon over once, head tilted, and then made a face and eased into bed beside him. He kissed the top of Brendon's forehead, just on the hairline, before turning off the light, and they went to sleep without saying a word.

\---

They saw Spencer almost constantly in the days that followed. Brendon didn't say anything then, either. His words felt caught up in his throat, and Ryan wasn't writing, wasn't giving him anything to say.

He stayed close, holding Brendon's hand, draping an arm around Brendon's shoulders, having their knees touch under tables. All of that was the same, and Brendon tried to be comforted, calmed.

But Ryan barely talked to him. They spent hours, the four of them (because it seemed where Spencer went Jon was almost always likely to follow) going on walks, eating food, sitting on couches, playing videos and music, in their home, in Jon's apartment, at the 'bucks. Hours of talking and laughing going on around him as Brendon stayed silent, head on Ryan's shoulder, fingers twined, focusing so hard on not letting go he couldn't add to the conversation, couldn't make his voice come out normal.

Spencer probably thought he was crazy, or just really stupid, and Jon kept casting him confused, worried looks, but there wasn't anything Brendon could do about it. Ryan was smiling. All the time he was smiling, and laughing, his eyes light, untroubled. Brendon hadn't been able to do that. Not to sustain it, and it seemed Spencer could. So Brendon would do what he had to, he would step away if the time came. But for now he clung to Ryan, hugged his side and closed his eyes and tried to remember every moment, every second while he could still pretend Ryan was his.

\---

Jon tried to intervene once, when Brendon was at the Starbucks himself, grabbing coffee on his way to school. Classes had started, and Brendon distantly supposed that he might even be enjoying them, but he barely noticed, most of the time, that they were going on around him. It was probably going to be shit for his GPA.

He just wanted coffee, but Jon looked at him sadly and said, "You don't have to be worried. Spencer's not... there's no threat to you, what you and Ryan have. He's not trying to step in the middle of that." Jon shrugged a little sheepishly. "We're not, really, right now, but someday me and Spencer are going to be dating. We're just... getting ready for each other. But even if... Ryan loves you. Like that, there's no one else he loves. I. Anyone can see that."

Brendon smiled, and wanted to believe him. But all he could see was that, these days, the happiness on Ryan's face only dimmed when he looked at Brendon, and because he hated to see it happen, he kept his eyes closed more and more.

\---

Brendon wrapped his fingers around the curve of his knees, and blinked at the wall in front of him. He had somehow found himself alone with Spencer, while Ryan was on a coffee run with Jon. Without Ryan there as a buffer, Spencer was staring at him outright, face openly suspicious.

Brendon wondered if it would be worth losing whatever time he had left with Ryan to punch Spencer in his entitled face. He thought of how knowing that had happened would make Ryan look, and knew it wouldn't even come close.

Spencer was sitting at the opposite end of Jon's living room, but he got up with sudden decisiveness, walking over to sit down beside Brendon. Brendon pressed further against the arm of the couch.

Spencer sighed. "I'm not an asshole, you know."

Brendon made an involuntary scoffing noise and then tried to smile his best "just kidding" smile. It felt more like a grimace on his lips. Still, he nodded. "Right."

"I'm not. Look. I care about Ryan."

Brendon supposed, asshole or not, you had to at least give Spencer credit for not being an idiot. He didn't take long to get to the point, at least.

"Sure." He believed it, even. Not that it really changed much, now. The damage was long ago done.

"I want to be his friend again - I want to earn that. But you. It'll never work if you hate me."

Brendon wanted to laugh. He wondered where Spencer got the impression he had such power. "You seem to be doing just fine."

Spencer made a frustrated noise. "He talks to me, but it's like he's barely there. When I first - when we found each other again - that first day, that was real. That was Ryan. And for all that he had changed he _knew_ me, I knew him. Whatever made our friendship special, we hadn't lost it. I still don't think we have, but you... he talks to me, to Jon, but every other inch of his concentration is on you. You are freaking him out so badly he doesn't even know what to say to you. Can't even show it cause he's so afraid of spooking you more. He doesn't say so but I can tell - that much I can still tell. And he knows you think there's something wrong with me. Until you stop thinking that he'll never trust me. Not really." Spencer looked so completely broken up about it Brendon almost wanted to pat his shoulder and tell him it was going to be alright.

Then he remembered that there actually _was_ something fucking wrong with him.

"You _left_ him," he practically spat, not able to stop himself.

Spencer blinked, wounded, stunned. "I was six."

Brendon shrugged, unmoved. "You didn't know how to pick up a phone?"

Spencer bit his lip, looking a mix of furious and guilty. "He wouldn't let me."

Brendon shook his head, "What?"

Spencer looked back at him, eyes flashing. "I was only six fucking years old. And when he shoved me out of our good-bye hug and told me he didn't want to be my friend anymore, I believed him. I cried the whole way to Chicago. My mom tried telling me he didn't mean it but I saw his eyes, I might not have understood why then, but I knew he honestly didn't want to hear from me." Spencer crunched tighter into himself. "By the time I got a little older, got to realize that Ryan was being a fucking idiot, that he was only saving himself from inevitable pain and disappointment if I actually _was_ going to stop caring about him, and if after four years of not even talking that hadn't happened it probably wasn't gonna... well. He'd moved, probably more than once. I didn't even know if he was living with his mom or his dad. I don't know if he would have taken my calls, even if I had been able to find him."

 _Well fuck_.

"Christ, Ryan," Brendon muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Spencer cracked a small, understanding smile. "I missed him. All the time. I probably thought about him everyday. And I only knew him for a year. I mean, that can't be normal. No one ever, I stopped talking about him, cause other kids thought I was weird, or making him up. But I _wasn't_. My parents knew him, he was real and he was my friend. It... until I met Jon, I never had another friend like that. Someone it just felt _right_ , knowing, being with. Ryan's... special."

Brendon laughed. "He's pretty fucking special alright."

After a tense second, Spencer laughed too.

\---

When Ryan and Jon got back with the coffee, and the bagels, and the candy, items which had apparently become necessary as they journeyed, Spencer and Brendon were still tucked up together on the couch, talking it out, laughing and shaking their heads ruefully, fondly. Learning to trust, little by little.

Ryan stopped dead in his tracks when he saw them, and Jon had to catch the bag of bagels out of his slack hand.

He said, seemingly helpless, waving a finger in their general direction, "Hey," with an unspoken _that's mine_ , attached.

Together, Spencer and Brendon smiled up at him, "We can share, Ryan Ross, we can all share."


	3. [Chicago] won't break us down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being in Chicago was better, except for the ways it wasn't. (Mikey/Ray, Jon/Spencer (pre Jon/Spencer/Gerard), Ryan/Brendon, pre Bob/Brian)

_Mikey_

Being in Chicago was better, except for the ways it wasn't.

In Vegas it had just been him and Ray and Gee, and for awhile they had been their own little universe, and that had been good. Then Gerard found Ryan and Brendon, and brought them home, made them family, and that was better.

Now, in Chicago, they had lots of people. There was Bob and Pete, Brian, Patrick, Andy and Joe. Mikey loved his job, loved working for Brian, working with younger bands, less experienced, more raw. And he knew for the most part Ray was enjoying the work he was finding, and Gerard was insanely exhausted and excited by the new music program he was getting going. Ryan and Brendon were growing up in front of them everyday, and their loyalty to each other never wavered, not even in the shock of Spencer's return to Ryan's life.

So it was mostly better, and Mikey was glad they had come. He loved their home, loved having them all together with him. He'd never been lonely, not when he had Ray with him, but he loved having a house that was full of people, full of life, full of love.

But still, he worried. Even with all of them pulling together, money was tight. And though he clearly loved his job, and Mikey could see in his eyes that Gerard felt he was finally doing the work he was meant to do, Mikey could see just as clearly that Gerard was hardly sleeping. His hands fluttered more; he hugged Mikey harder when he said good-bye every morning; he drank more coffee, smoked more cigarettes. Mikey'd seen it before, and it set his teeth on edge, made every breath fight to leave his chest.

Even among them, Gerard was lonely; there was no one with him at night to soothe the frenzied thoughts, dreams and plans and worries, that kept him up, no one to take his fluttering hands and hold them, claim them for their own. Mikey could do some of that, sometimes, but for all that he and Gerard were to each other, he could never be that, and it killed him to see the way Gerard seemed to be settling into it here, far more than he had in Vegas, as if he was preparing himself for a lifetime alone.

\---  
 _  
Jon_

Jon wasn't really a lace-your-shoes-up kind of guy. He was pretty much wasn't a put-your-shoes-on-at-all kind of guy, not if he could get away with it. But when forced, as one so often was when living in Chicago, he'd slip his feet reluctantly into pre-laced sneakers and try not to grimace too visibly, because that was the sort of thing older brothers were just waiting to make fun of you for.

Because of this habit, along with his general disdain for closed-toe shoes of any kind, Jon didn't take especially good care of them. He wasn't wasteful, didn't wreck shoes before their time and thus force his parents to buy more; he just didn't care if they got dirty or ratty looking. In particular, the heels of his shoes where always creased and bent from getting pressed down too many times as he shoved them on.

It wasn't something Jon would ever have noticed, he's reasonably sure, if he wasn't best friends with Spencer Smith.

Spencer had a Thing about shoes - and about sneakers in particular, and he spent the majority of their walks to school throughout high school critiquing, bemoaning and generally drawing attention to the state of Jon's shoes. Jon was at least sixty percent less likely to be late for his early morning classes due to his perpetual hurry to have his shoes on and be out the door before Spencer arrived to pick him up en route to school. Not that Spencer's presence caused him to alter his strategy, but it was doubly unpleasant to swallow the daily bullet of entrapping his poor toes in the prison of his shoes when he had to do it while Spencer glared down disapprovingly and occasionally made sympathetic noises on behalf of the shoes. Traitor.

Graduating and starting college did little to alter Jon's routine. He now drove to campus instead of walking, but Spencer--who was a year younger but had still managed to graduate with Jon through a combination of summer classes and steely determination--had carefully crafted both their schedules to maximize their carpooling potential. Jon typically drove to pick Spencer up, although their houses were close enough that Spencer still walked over sometimes, either because he had genuinely woken up earlier or just because he felt like torturing Jon a little extra that day. Instead of walks, during which Spencer said things like, "You could have avoided that puddle so easily, now the suede's going to stain," or "Are you kidding me with those? Flip-flops, Jon? In October? At least put on some socks for god's sake," Jon had car rides where Spencer filled with the space with craftily discovered radio signals and complaints about the way he was wearing down the soles of his shoes by pressing too hard on the gas pedal while he drove.

Footwear woes aside, it was, in Jon's estimation, a pretty kick-ass life. He had a job he tolerated and occasionally enjoyed, he had classes and photography, new, if slightly odd and occasionally scary, friends in the form of Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross, and he had Spencer.

He hadn't always. In middle school Jon had played baseball, so he was friendly with the guys on his team, and he had his brothers, and Tom, and he was happy. In retrospect, his childhood was easy, solid. He was lucky, and generally speaking, he was pretty aware of that fact.

Still, when Spencer's family moved to their neighborhood and he showed up at Jon's school when he was in the seventh grade, Jon could see from the first moment what he'd been missing. Spencer kept to himself; he moved with confidence but with curious patience, like he was waiting for something, or someone, in every step. Sometimes, when people spoke to him, he bristled for no apparent reason, pulling up his chest and glaring defiantly, stepping slightly forward as if protecting the empty space behind him.

Jon could only guess what this kind of behavior was about, but he knew enough to bet being a good friend was pretty much in Spencer's blood, and it was enough for Jon to seek him out, continually and with persistent, friendly smiles, until, after several weeks, Spencer relented and started elbowing in front of Jon when people said something Jon didn't like or that Spencer simply felt wasn't good enough to be spoken in Jon's presence.

After Jon managed to get under Spencer's shell, he was more than equitably rewarded. Spencer was fierce and funny and private, but once he let you in he kept you there, and that was Jon's extremely fortunate position for the next six years.

When Ryan, who was sharp and strange but both Brendon- and Pete-approved, turned out to be Spencer's lost-long and long-loved best friend, he'd felt the oddest and most unexpected pang of jealously race up his spine. He'd held eyes with Brendon, and given him free coffee out of some uncomfortable combination of solidarity and spite, but after that had forced himself to grow up and be happy that Spencer had something he'd always missed back in his life. That had been easier said than done, and certainly hadn't been helped along by the way Brendon silently but so very visibly freaked out for about three weeks straight when the four of them were first trying to find their footing. But they managed to eventually, enough that Brendon and Spencer could roll their eyes together when Ryan did something particularly ridiculous or frustrating, and enough that Jon could smile at Ryan and call him his friend and mean it too.

Because as much as he was still surprised by it, much of the time, he and Ryan _were_ friends, now, in their way. It wasn't anything like the charged, impenetrable bond between Ryan and Brendon, or the simple, seemingly innate connection and understanding between Spencer and Ryan, but by that fall Jon knew he count himself among the select few people whom Ryan Ross considered his friend. It hadn't been something he'd been sure he'd be able to achieve, but for his own sake, for Spencer's, Jon was glad it was so.

He and Spencer were different again, best friends in a completely different way which still allowed Spencer to claim Ryan as such. Spencer had always been his friend, from the minute Jon won his trust that had been what they were to each other, but Jon had loved him, had been in love with him, just as long. What was more, Jon knew and had long known that Spencer felt the same. It was strange, then, or Jon knew it would seem strange to most people, that they hadn't really done anything about it.

It wasn't that Jon was unsure; he and Spencer were meant to be together like that, of that he was certain. For a long time, they hadn't felt ready, too young or too content with what they had. Once they started they knew it would be forever, and that was a serious prospect, a daunting one, at fourteen or seventeen.

But as time stretched on, as they began college, started to grow more fully into themselves, Jon couldn't help but wonder if there was something else holding them back, like a missing piece it felt wrong to begin before putting in place.

Jon was expecting a spark of heat or jealously, some kind of cataclysmic moment that would push them over the edge of close, handsy friendship into something more.

He was not expecting Gerard Way.

\---

In the time since Ryan and Brendon had become fixtures in Spencer and Jon's life, Ryan had, until that October, kept the rest of his family pretty close to his vest. His literal vest, Jon couldn't help adding in his mind, every time he looked at the floral shirts Ryan wore under the series of brown and gray vests Brendon had apparently made for him. They all had his and Brendon's initials woven together over the heart. Jon couldn't help but think it was pretty fucking sweet.

They heard stories about Mikey and Ray and Gerard, but while they spent lots of time at Spencer's or Jon's, they never went back to Ryan and Brendon's house. Jon was curious, but he was also careful not to push. Pushing Ryan had more obvious and potentially devastating results, but Brendon was even trickier. He gave as much as he could right away; what was there for the taking he offered up on sight. At least, that was how it had been for Jon. Spencer had taken some time, but Brendon was honest, always, and it would have been a pretty shitty repayment, trying to force him into giving more than he could or was ready to.

So they waited it out, and it ended up taking almost three months before Ryan said, in that ridiculously casual way he had when he was about to say something extremely important, "You guys should stop by later, this evening maybe. I've got class until 7:30, but stop by our house after that if you want."

Evenings were typically Family Time, from what Jon understood, and from the way he was nodding, Spencer got the significance too. Brendon was tucked in extra close at Ryan's side, but he smiled encouragingly at them.

Jon smiled back. "We'll be there."

\---

It was barely into October, but it wasn't completely unheard of, so Jon only blinked and then smiled up at the sky when it started to snow on their walk to Ryan and Brendon's.

Spencer stamped the ground, looking disgruntled. Jon smiled at him. "Look at your poor shoes," he teased, ignoring Spencer's murderous look.

"Fucking not even Halloween yet," being a non-native, Spencer felt it was still within his rights to be outraged at such things, despite having lived in Chicago for over a decade. Personally, Jon was just bitter he'd only gotten Spencer after he'd already been there for the first half.

"Stop being a baby; and hurry up, we're almost there."

"I'll baby you," Spencer said spitefully, but was forced to laugh at himself a second later. "Or, you know. Some sort of retort that made any kind of sense. Just imagine one up for yourself instead."

Jon laughed too, and quickened his strides to keep up with Spencer's sudden burst of speed. "Will do."

\---

When they arrived, there was already someone at the door, struggling with a large bag, an armful of papers and a tangled set of keys. For a minute they stood staring at the dark silhouette against the brightness of the snowing night sky, and then they shook themselves, moving closer to help.

Spencer grabbed the papers and folders out of one arm while Jon caught the keys just before they fell.

The guy, from Ryan's descriptions Jon was guessing Gerard, flapped his now empty arms a little and smiled down at them. "Thanks for the hands," he said a little ruefully.

Jon wanted to say "no problem" but the words were stuck in his throat, blocked by the lump Gerard's wide and slightly wonky smile had put there.

He looked at Spencer somewhat frantically, for help or from guilt, he wasn't sure. Spencer shook his head, snow flicking off his hair, jarring them both back into normalcy.

Jon coughed, and managed, "Which key?"

Gerard didn't take the keys out of Jon's hand, but his fingers came to select the correct one before he pressed it into Jon's.

Jon nodded shakily and let them in.

\---

The foyer of the house opened up into a living room, off to the right side, and Ryan immediately came into view as they piled into the house. He was curled up on one of the couches facing them; Brendon was sitting on the floor, leaning against the same couch, reading. Ryan had a wrinkly-faced dog, presumably Piglet, tucked under his arm.

He blinked up at them, shaking off doziness, but Brendon hopped up right away, explaining, "It's his post-seminar daze, he'll totally snap out of it in like twenty minutes, but he just barely got home, so. You know. Hi! You're in my house!" This seemed to be directed primarily at Jon, although Brendon smiled at Spencer as well.

Things weren't perfect with them yet, but Spencer smiled back, and Jon could see the tension that was preparing to build in Ryan's shoulders ease away.

Gerard waved a hand somewhat awkwardly, and moved as if to leave them alone, but Brendon caught his elbow and said, "Gerard, no hiding. Ray's making apple crisp, we're going to watch movies. It's a whole big thing."

Gerard laughed a little, "All right, kid."

"You've obviously met them, but have you been introduced? Gerard, this is Jon, Jon, Gerard."

Then Jon was facing Gerard full-on, a pale, delicate hand extended his way. Jon reached out automatically, warm hand closing tight over Gerard's cold one. "You've got to wear gloves, this is Chicago, man," he heard himself say.

Gerard grinned self-deprecatingly. "I always fucking forget."

Spencer cut in smoothly, "Don't even listen to him. I mean - wear gloves, but don't take advice from Jon Walker. The fool has been seen wearing sandals in November."

Gerard didn't laugh, he just nodded like this made sense. "Shoes can be a fucking pain in the ass." He shrugged philosophically. "Laces, man."

Jon had to physically stop himself from putting a hand to his heart.

He was totally fucked.

 

\---

Once Ryan was more fully conscious, his eyes widened at sight of the way Jon was helplessly hovering near Gerard, and he pointedly inserted himself between them, giving Jon a sharp, confused look over his shoulder.

Gerard seemed oblivious, and instantly gave his attention up to a conversation Ryan had initiated about lyrics, nodding and filling in the gaps in what Ryan was saying. Ryan drew Gerard back to the couch and used him as a pillow once he sat down. Brendon returned to the floor, now resting against Ryan's legs instead of the couch. It left room for Jon on the couch, and Spencer took the chair closest to Jon.

Gerard and Ryan continued to chatter quietly about the chorus of some song Ryan was working on, and while he normally would have, Jon didn't join in.

Brendon looked up at him curiously, and nudged Jon's leg with his shoulder, "Mikey and Ray are just in the kitchen, finishing up the snacks, and then we'll pick movies. Can I count on your vote for some with a little more sunshine and a little less tragedy and guts?"

Jon blinked. "Guts?"

"Gee, Mikey and Ray are pretty huge fans of horror movies." He shrugged. "They're from Jersey. They claim that explains it, but I don't know. I say it's no excuse. Anyway, they can usually convince Ryan, 'cause he's convinced he can find the right amount of irony to enjoy them if he watches them enough, which is worth the effort mainly 'cause he's a loser who wants Mikey to think he's cool."

Ryan issued a mild, "Hey," and poked Brendon in the back of the neck, but otherwise let his remarks go unchallenged.

Brendon continued, "So I always lose, unless I appeal to Gerard's equally strong desire to watch a musical, in which case Ryan will always swing his vote."

From the way he was single-mindedly absorbing every word Gerard said to him, Jon surmised that Ryan was also pretty invested in Gerard thinking he was cool.

Jon was amazed by how deeply he suddenly found himself sharing that predicament.

"But sometimes that gets confused, and the next thing you know, they're trying to get us to watch Phantom of the Opera, which, just no. That shit hurts me on the inside. So I need your help on this."

Jon stared at Brendon for a minute, and then, at a loss, turned to Spencer for assistance. Spencer was still mostly staring at Gerard and scrunching his eyes like he was trying to get them to see something different.

"So you weren't kidding when you said this was a whole big thing," Jon responded eventually.

Brendon laughed for a second, but then his face grew serious. "No. Not really."

Jon shook himself a little, trying to clear out the cobwebs, "Um. Sure. I mean, we can watch something without guts or singing, if that's what you're into. I mostly watch boxsets of TV myself, anyway; haven't seen a movie in awhile."

Spencer nodded conspiratorially, finally breaking from his reverie. "What he means is that he watches season one of the O.C pretty much on repeat. Fucking loser."

Jon held up his hands, "Is it my fault Sandy Cohen is a great role model and I just want to learn everything I can so I can grow up to be just like him?"

"And adopt strays while married to a workaholic and sometime alcoholic? Yes, Jon, live the dream." Spencer snorted.

Before he could stop himself, or maybe just because he didn't want to, Jon said, "Are you planning on becoming either of those?"

Spencer's face froze, for a moment, but then it was transformed into a pink, glowing thing. "Shut up," he said, softly, and Jon didn't even think of trying to stop himself from reaching out and taking Spencer's hand.

"Well, then I see no reason we can't adopt a lot of teenage cats who are hard on their luck," Jon concluded with satisfaction, nonchalance lost to how hard he was smiling, how tightly he was holding onto Spencer's hand.

Ryan looked over at them, pursed his lips thoughtfully for a second, and then smiled, leaning a little less protectively against Gerard's side.

Jon got caught again, looking at the slight shine in Gerard's messy black hair, at the strange curve of his nose, but Spencer's hand was warm in his, and he turned back to him and smiled, suddenly certain that, no matter what else seemed to be happening inside him, this was still something he could be sure of.

\---

It was still snowing when they finally left that night, and Spencer tisked slightly at the ground before stepping onto it.

Jon, because it felt like the only and most natural response in the world, said, "I love you, Spencer."

Spencer hadn't let go of his hand all evening, and for a second it tightened around Jon's, but then he rolled his eyes and, "Yeah, I know."

A few steps later, softly, but still loud enough for Jon to hear, Spencer said, "I love you, too."

\---

 _Mikey_

Twenty-six didn't feel too old to climb into bed with his big brother when he couldn't sleep, but if Mikey did that, Gerard would know Mikey was having trouble sleeping himself, and that would just give Gerard something more to worry about.

Instead Mikey went to bed with Ray and curved himself against Ray's chest, Ray's hands holding him there, one in his hair, the other wrapped across his back, and waited for sleep to come. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn't, and on the latter occasions he lay there until he was sure Ray was completely out before gingerly extracting himself and slipping out of the room. The house was big enough that there were plenty of places for Mikey to hide, but he always ended up at the kitchen table, looking down at his hands. Sometimes he got out his checkbook, or went over bills, but mostly he stared blankly at the table, trying to think of nothing.

He lost track of how many nights he'd done it, keeping no kind of record at all, until the night Ryan padded into the kitchen, not even looking surprised to find him there, and joined him at the table.

Mikey lifted his hands to explain, tried to smile, but Ryan just shrugged and shook his head.

He didn't say anything, but across the table, he reached out and took one of Mikey's hands. Mikey opened his fingers so Ryan could lace theirs together, and when he sighed, Ryan nodded like Mikey'd told him everything he needed to know.

Mikey smiled, just a little. With Ryan, a little tended to go a long way.

\---

A few nights after Ryan found him, Ray did.

Mikey thought for a wild moment of hiding, but it was Ray, and he couldn't. There was no where he'd be willing to go Ray wouldn't find him.

"I'm feeling a little left out here, I have to say." Mikey sometimes wished he could tell Ray his bluntness and honestly were shitty qualities in a boyfriend. But he's never been interested in being that much of a liar.

"I know. Sorry."

Ray shook his head and sat down heavily. "Sorry? Jesus Mikey. It's Gerard, and money, right? Is it other stuff too? How fucking out to lunch am I on the state of my own lover?"

Mikey flinched. He held out his hands feebly and Ray took them. His hands were warm, large and strong. They always were. "Just that. And well, being here."

Ray nodded. "There's a lot more people now."

"Yeah." People who mattered, people it would kill to lose.

"I'm not going to make Pete go away," Ray said quietly.

Mikey stared at him.

Ray shrugged, "I know that I, I can be a little rough with him still. I don't mean to be but I still get..."

 _Jealous_ , Mikey realized, mildly awed.

"I didn't know. I don't think that," he tried.

Ray rubbed his thumb over Mikey's knuckles. "I'm not going to take him away for any other reason either."

Mikey's thoughts stumbled over themselves. Eventually they cleared up enough for him to say, "He's good for Ryan."

Ray lifted his head back, almost amused. "I know. I know that."

"That wasn't why?" Ray was more overtly protective of Brendon, but he felt it just as much for Ryan.

Ray shook his head. "Nope."

"It was about me?"

Ray squeezed Mikey's hands, almost too hard, and still looking like he was restraining himself. He took a few breaths before saying, "I don't know how you've missed this until now, but with me, Mikey, it usually is."

\---  
 _  
Jon_

They were never formally invited over again, but Jon's understanding was that once that offer had been made once, the door was always open. He knew this largely because on evenings when they had a class that ended at the same time, Ryan would sort of glare at him, impatient, mostly, and Jon would say, "I just have to grab one thing out of my locker," and Ryan would sigh long-sufferingly and then Jon would knew he was expected to come over. Similar things would happen when Brendon stopped by Jon's work, conveniently at the end of his shift, and just shrugged dismissively when Jon asked what he wanted to order.

From the amount of times Spencer called him and said, "So we're supposed to go to Ryan and Brendon's now," Jon assumed he got similar treatment.

By that December, they were at the house as much as they were at their own. Jon didn't even think he would have seen his apartment, most of the time, if it wasn't for the nights he and Spencer spent there. They didn't do anything, just slept, held on, but it was something they both needed all the same. He had cats to look after, also, and sometimes Ryan and Brendon could be coaxed over, but they seemed perpetually reluctant to leave their home once they got back to it from school or, in Ryan's case, the tutoring hours he was picking up, and Jon couldn't really blame them.

He'd always thought he liked the quiet and privacy of his apartment after living at home all his life. He'd told himself he liked the freedom, the independence, the ability to walk around wearing nothing but pajamas for days at a time without anyone--except Spencer who never went that long without coming over to make fun of Jon for something--saying anything to him about it.

It kind of turned out he was a total liar in that respect.

The Way-Ross-Urie-Toro household (which they were still attempting to find a less cumbersome title for) was almost always quiet, but at the same time, it hummed. Ryan and Mikey seemed locked in some kind of a competition for who could enter and then inhabit the most rooms undetected, and for all that he was at moments boundless babble and energy, Brendon could go _still_ and stay that way for hours like no one Jon had ever seen. Ray didn't talk unless he had something to say, and if it seemed like no one else did, he always appeared content to leave things that way.

And Gerard? Gerard could sing, and dance, and make both look unassuming. He could shout ideas at the top of his lungs and get every ounce of the house's attention without disturbing a thing. Ray could play music that filled the whole house, but it was never jarring, never a distraction.

Jon could take work over there at any time, and always know he'd be able to get it finished. The sun-room in Ryan and Mikey's turret was rapidly becoming his favorite place to take pictures once he'd developed them, laying them out on the floor and scrutinizing them one by one. Gerard always seemed to find him like that, gravitating up to lean in the door frame and murmur contributions and comments, even when Jon could have sworn Gerard wasn't even home when he arrived.

He was like that with Spencer's drumming too, the nights and afternoons they came over to jam with Brendon and Ryan, and occasionally Mikey and Ray too. Mikey held his bass like it was a part of him, his fingers moved along it like they belonged there. It made Jon kind of jealous, but Mikey was generous with everything that was his, including his talent, and he taught Jon things every single time they played together.

Gerard never joined in, even though Jon longed to hear his and Brendon's voices together, but whenever they came over to play, no matter what the time, Gerard always found them, and he watched them all, but Jon couldn't help but think, with the way Gerard's hands moved as he sat and watched, that he was there for Spencer most of all.

That kind of thinking was tricky, though. Dangerous. It gave Jon hope where maybe there wasn't any. Where maybe there shouldn't be.

Gerard had a way of making him feel too young and too old all at once; too little, too much.

Jon would catch Gerard looking at him and Spencer, at their hands clasped together, or Spencer's tired head on Jon's shoulder, and there would be curiosity there, like he didn't understand how they fit. It made Jon want to scream sometimes, because for all that they did, it wasn't perfect, it wasn't complete; but Gerard never took that step, never got there in his thinking. Just remained curious and wary, no thought to how he might make right the disjointed space between them.

And then there was Ryan, who still used himself as a physical barrier between them and Gerard whenever he got the chance. He was more obvious about it with Jon, but, apparently a little more reluctantly, he did the same with Spencer. Always looking at them with narrowed eyes as though it he was expecting each of them to step in with the other before he did.

Jon couldn't blame him, really. It had to confuse the fuck out of him, the way Jon and Spencer looked at Gerard while they were still so busy looking at each other. That had to be enough to scare Ryan. Even without that, Ryan wasn't particularly good at sharing what was his. Jon couldn't fault him for that either. He hadn't had much in his life he'd gotten to hold onto. He had no reason not to hold on like hell to the things he did.

\---

Jon and Spencer didn't talk about it. But they sat in silence, sometimes, and Jon knew they were having the same conversation in their heads.

He's almost thirty. / I don't give a fuck.

He'd never think of us like that. / We could at least try and make him. We could _try_.

He's Ryan's. / God damn it.

It's not about you not being enough. / We're us.

\---

 _Mikey_

Mikey knew he would have been able to figure out a way to talk about what was going on with Gerard himself eventually, but impatience and lack of sleep got the better of him, and he ended up inviting Pete over and letting events take their course.

Pete arrived, nodded hello to Ray, inquired about the whereabouts of Ryan, who was due back from the library shortly, and said, "Let's smoke some fucking cigarettes."

From the floor, where he was drawing, Gerard laughed.

They went outside, because _no smoking in the house_ had been a rule since they got to Chicago. It was just a small part of the nightmare he'd grown up in, but still, it wasn't a smell Mikey wanted Ryan coming home to. Ray and Gerard had heartily agreed, and the decision had been made. The weather wasn't exactly playing nice about it, but Mikey wasn't one to depend on such things.

Pete stamped his feet a little; he was predictably wearing a checkered pair of van slip-ons, and Gerard said, "Spencer Smith would disapprove."

Mikey blinked a little, trying to figure out where that had come from, but Pete was quicker. "Fascist." He said it approvingly, fondly.

Gerard wrinkled his nose. He mostly got Pete, but occasionally he didn't. "He seems like a smart kid."

Pete chuckled, "Freakishly so, from what I've seen." He shrugged. "And not really a kid, for all his girlish figure would indicate otherwise. I met him through Jon when they were something like fifteen and fourteen, and swear to God, it was like he was already forty on the inside. So together, so sure of himself." He shook his head. "It was pretty lame, being made to feel childish and inadequate by a fourteen-year-old." He smiled, the self-deprecating one with too much teeth Mikey hated to see.

"But not much has changed there, I guess. He and Walker have been written in the stars since at least that time, and they seem to finally be getting proactive about it, and then there's Ryan and Brendon..." He looked up at Mikey, two steps and a good set of inches above him. "Even you, Mikeyway. Everybody's got someone, and like... the _right_ someone." He took a drag off his cigarette and squinted a little; it was starting to snow again.

Gerard was quiet, a thinking kind of quiet. When he was finished, he said, "It's not even about begrudging people their happiness." Mikey smiled at him a little, reassuring Gerard that he knew. Gerard almost smiled back. "It just sucks when you're the only single person in the room."

Pete muttered, "Perpetually," and then snapped out of it, grinning at Gerard. "We should totally date! It would be magical."

Gerard laughed. "Magically disastrous, maybe." He said it nicely, though, and Pete kept smiling.

Mikey was glad, but he still felt obligated to add, "Also, _ew_."

Pete made puppy-eyes at him for a minute, and Mikey flipped him off. They all laughed.

\---

After that, Mikey started paying attention to different things.

The way Gerard's movements were always so much quieter, as though he was more settled into himself, when Spencer and Jon were around.

The sad tinge in his smile when they touched, when they said good-bye.

The sharp set of Ryan's jaw when one of them got too close to Gerard, the way he would steer Gee out of their space with a firm but unassuming hand.

The glances that went unfinished between Jon and Spencer, like something was out of place, wanting.

It made him want to echo Ryan's steps, to take Gerard's other side and watch and protect, because there were still dark circles under Gerard's eyes, and every night they came over they still left together while Gerard spent another largely sleepless night alone. But as strong as that urge was, Mikey wasn't sure, seeing the softness that looked so much like hope in their eyes when they fell on him, that they were really something Gerard needed protection from.

\---

 _Jon_

Jon understood that Brendon knew differently, but sometimes it still felt like Brendon thought times Jon was at work were times he and Brendon were scheduled to have private, emotionally difficult rendezvous.

He got it. Ryan wouldn't be weird about Brendon spontaneously _requiring_ coffee, and the 'bucks down the block was one of the few places Ryan could stand to see Brendon go alone without having his face twitch. Jon had seen that happen, it wasn't pretty. Brendon was right to avoid it.

Still. Sometimes Jon was like, legitimately busy. Like, working.

However, Brendon never complained when it took Jon twenty minutes to get through a sudden rush of customers before he could finally let another barista take over the cash while he idled at the other end of the bar and talked to Brendon.

This particular time it was more like half an hour, and--clearly in a little bit of a rush--Brendon opened with, "Ryan wasn't vetting you. It wasn't about that."

Jon struggled to get himself up to speed, "Having us over, you mean?"

Brendon nodded. "He trusts you, it wasn't about that."

Jon rubbed his forehead. "What was it about?"

Brendon smiled a little, not a happy smile. "It was my fault. When I... when Spencer was, well, you know how I was. Ryan, I thought he didn't notice but he did, and when Spencer finally explained it to me, it was kind of too late."

Jon raised surprised and suddenly worried eyebrows. He'd thought Brendon and Ryan were doing okay.

Brendon waved a comforting hand, "Not like that. He just... it was too late for him not to feel like he'd screwed up somehow - which he didn't, that one was all me really - and had to make it up to me. Ryan's... he has to write it out, in lyrics, or he does big, strange gestures."

Jon went over it in his head. "So, not having us in your actual house for three months, not having Spencer there, that was a gesture?"

Brendon smiled, relieved. "Yes."

Jon nodded slowly. "Okay."

Brendon rushed on, "I just - I thought I should explain that. I didn't want you to think... well, that Ryan didn't care about you. Or that you still needed - you're good enough, you're part of our family now. I just... he does know. Um, that. He feels it about you. And Spence."

Jon felt himself flush, he rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't gotten the point of this conversation until now. "Look, Brendon--"

"I'm not saying anything! I'm not. I'm just saying that. You know, we love you. You're our friend. Spencer's obviously Ryan's, but he's mine too now. I just don't want you to ever think that doesn't matter. Even if we can be bad at showing it sometimes."

Jon tried to swallow back everything else, and he was able to smile as he said, "You do okay."

\---

One of these days, Jon was going to sit down and take some time to seriously freak out about how transparent he and Spencer were about their feelings for Gerard. Really. Any day now.

In the meantime, he had two papers to finish, and extra shifts at the 'bucks so he could afford Christmas gifts, and movie nights at Ryan and Brendon's, and semi-almost-but-not-really band practices with them, and his family still wanted to see him occasionally. And in between all that there were moments, so many tiny, perfect moments when it didn't matter who else was in the room, because Gerard would look at them, and he would smile, and it would feel exactly as if they were the only three people in the world.

\---

For all that he guarded Gerard's perimeter whenever they were at the house, Ryan never talked to them about it. Jon saw him almost wanting to, sometimes, he'd look up and Ryan would be glaring at him thoughtfully, as opposed to his more habitual blank look, which was always just hinting at mild suspicion, and Jon would open his mouth to say, "Spit it out already," but inevitably Ryan would get distracted by Gerard or Spencer, and he'd go back to really having no expression at all, or sometimes even awarding them a small smile.

Ryan hardly ever smiled at him anymore.

Jon tried not to take it too personally.

\---  
 _  
Mikey_

Bob wasn't around as much as Mikey would have liked, because he was frequently away doing things like _having a job_ and _being on tour_. Loser.

But when he was in the city, they always made sure to have him over for dinner at least once.

Mikey loved Bob, but prized having Bob around even more highly because of how well Bob and Ray got along. Bob and Ray were like Ryan and Mikey; they could sit in silence for hours and leave feeling like they'd completely gotten to the bottom of whatever was on their minds. Bob even got Ray out of the house occasionally, which was typically something that only his job or a hopeful look from Mikey or Brendon could do. Something similar from Ryan or Gerard would likely have been just as effective, but for whatever reason, they never tried such things on him. Well, Gerard's reason probably had something to do with never wanting to leave the house himself, and Ryan... well. Ryan just didn't like asking for things. Even when he knew he was likely to get them.

The trouble with Bob, other than a frankly inconvenient work ethic, was that he had uncanny way of reading the undercurrents of a given situation and then, well... talking about them.

Which was how Mikey ended up smoking a cigarette on their front steps with Bob and Gerard, as Bob casually remarked, "So you have a thing for Walker and Smith, huh?"

Gerard squeaked, and flung his hand up in protest, which resulted in ash landing in Mikey's hair, and in the commotion that ensued, Mikey almost hoped the question would be forgotten.

But this was Bob, so it wasn't. Unfazed, Bob continued, "Why don't you do something about that? It's pretty obvious they feel the same."

Gerard opened and closed his mouth, not unlike a fish, and Bob took pity on him, because Bob was a decent guy like that. "Jeez, don't listen to me. I'm the guy whose been trying to date Brian Schechter unsuccessfully for over a year."

Mikey _paused_ , and took a moment to replay some of their interactions over the past year back in his head. He remembered a lot of gruff good-byes in the office before Bob went off on another tour with a given band, and several confused phone calls from Brian asking if Bob had some kind of an aversion to dating guys he had hidden really well by living with Patrick for almost two years.

" _That_ was you trying to date him?"

Bob said, "Shut up, Mikeyway," and then laughed.

It took him a second, but eventually Gerard joined in.

Gerard's laugh was a little sad, and Mikey sighed on the inside, but he still made a mental note to put in an explanatory word to Brian on Bob's behalf.

Brian's confused moping was a total drain on office morale.

\---

It was snowing again. It always seemed to start to snow as soon as Jon picked Spencer up along the way to the House. (They were trying just capitalizing it, but even in Jon's head, that seemed a little ominous.) Sometimes Jon drove as far as Spencer's and then walked, but more often he walked the whole way. It took awhile, but he kind of liked it that way. Everything there was worth the effort.

Spencer never fought him on the walk, so clearly he agreed, although he did comfort himself with his habitual complaining, "I think this route is cursed," he announced that particular evening, shaking snow out of his hair. It didn't do him any good.

Jon shrugged and stuck out his tongue. Every flake was perfect and unique the second before it melted. He only rolled his eyes at himself a little for the thought.

When they approached the House, Gerard was visible, back bent, shoveling the snow as it fell. It was coming down pretty hard, and they could see the layers building over his progress.

"You'll never get it done at this rate," Spencer shouted warmly. Jon didn't think Spencer knew how to talk to Gerard any differently.

Gerard didn't stop, but he grinned over his shoulder, "That's what Ray said."

Jon considered the statement, the way Gerard seemed to put his shoulders into the task a little more even as he said it.

Evidently that was the point.

"You have any more shovels?"

Gerard kept working, "I think so - look against the side of the house, in the walkway to the backyard."

There were two move shovels, although, in fairness, one of them might have been some kind of a trowel. Or a hoe. Jon didn't really know. He grabbed it anyway, handing the more legitimately shovel-like apparatus to Spencer.

Spencer rolled his eyes, and then got to work.

After about 15 minutes Gerard started to sing, and Jon couldn't help but join in. Under his breath, he could see Spencer mouthing all the words he knew.

They stayed out shoveling until the snow stopped.

\---

They piled into the house, laughing, cheeks red from the wind, and the first thing Jon saw was Ryan, hunched over a book, reading with forced nonchalance. Jon quieted a sigh and the smile slipped off Spencer's face.

Gerard stepped awkwardly away from them.

Ryan's face scrunched, but Brendon put a hand on his ankle, and he didn't say anything but, "Cold out?"

Gerard nodded. "Come see."

Ryan unfolded his legs and got up off the couch, handing Brendon his book as he went. He walked over to Gerard and held up his face. Gerard took off his gloves and put one of his hands against each of Ryan's cheeks. He didn't shiver, just held Gerard's eyes and smiled.

\---

 _Mikey  
_  
Mikey was fairly skilled when it came to getting Ryan to talk. They operated mainly through silent standoffs where they could sit for hours, aimlessly reading or texting, saying nothing to each other outside of the occasional shoulder nudge until one of them caved and spoke their mind. But while this method was largely effective, Mikey lacked Brendon's ability to, when warranted, simply sit down and ask.

"Is it because there's three of them?" Brendon began, putting a hand on Ryan's knee, to steady him, to keep him where he was.

Ryan gave Brendon a look that indicated he would never be upset about something so pedestrian, and was mildly offended by the implication.

Brendon had the good sense to appear contrite before continuing, "The age thing?"

Ryan's face didn't chance, but it seemed to be dawning on him that these questions were going to keep coming, and he shrugged tensely, eyes flicking across to the couch to Mikey, testing one avenue of escape, and Mikey shook his head, just enough for Ryan to see.

He crossed his arms, but it was Brendon asking, so he answered, "He could lose his job."

Mikey crossed his legs, thinking that one over. Brendon glanced at him, and it seemed they agreed that answer sounded like a _no_. Still, "Maybe. Spencer is seventeen, but he's not one of Gerard's students, never has been. He's out of high school, Chicago is a big city. There's no reason for... anyone to find out before it's," Brendon shrugged, "okay for them to. Or at all."

Ryan did not look mollified, although this didn't throw Brendon. He was better than anyone at picking through Ryan's responses, verbal and non-verbal, looking for the real answer underneath.

"But it could hurt him. It still might happen, and that would hurt him." Overtly, Brendon's tone was experimental, testing, but he sounded pretty sure of the nature of Ryan's concern all the same.

Ryan nodded tensely.

Brendon squeezed his knee. Mikey helped out, prompting Ryan with a gentle elbow in his arm. Ryan's hand moved to catch Mikey's elbow and squeeze before he rubbed his arm where it had been.

"If they - if something happened, I'd have to choose," Ryan explained, looking stricken. "And I only just got him back."

Mikey allowed himself a moment of blind relief, realizing that meant he'd choose Gerard, choose them.

He saw the same thing flash on Brendon's face, but he covered it quickly, saying, "Ryan, that might happen anyway. Someone might get hurt, something might go wrong. So long as the feelings are there, even if they don't act on them, they could still get hurt."

Ryan frowned, "I know that."

"So?" Brendon asked softly. "Then what, Ry?"

"At least this way it might take longer."

Mikey's eyes squeezed shut, his hand shot out and met Brendon's over Ryan's knee. Delaying the inevitable. Was that all Ryan thought he ever did? Was that as much as there was to hope for in his head?

Brendon moved, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against Ryan's. Ryan's breath stopped for a second, but then drew in, steadier.

"Some things are certain, Ryan," Brendon said the words with authority, with direction, like it was a ritual.

Ryan responded automatically, "You. Our family."

Brendon nudged Ryan's head encouragingly, and Ryan continued, a little wonderingly, "Spencer. Jon." Speaking those names aloud, it sounded like he believed in them.

Brendon smiled, "See. It's not so scary after all."

\---

Later Ryan said, "You tricked me," and poked Brendon in the nose.

But Brendon just smiled and said, "Nope. That was you having a bigger heart that you like to pretend. That was you trusting the people who have shown you they love you back."

Ryan glared, but didn't contradict him further.

\---

 _Jon_

Jon's phone rang and before he could get out a greeting, Ryan demanded, "Are you at home?"

Jon cleared his throat and said, "Yeah. Why?"

Ryan ignored the second half of his response, barreling on, "Is Spencer there with you?"

Jon looked across the couch. Spencer raised his eye brows. "Yep."

Ryan said, "Okay," and hung up on him.

Spencer took a bite of noodles. They were eating lunch. "That Ryan?"

Jon didn't have the spirit to make fun of Spencer and his freaky long-lost-BFF mind powers at that particular moment. He felt tired; his neck was sore. He rubbed it ineffectually with one hand. Spencer made a noise and put his bowl down, manhandling Jon against him, his own hands taking over. Jon let his head loll back, he groaned in appreciation.

"What did he want?" Spencer asked, as though Jon had already answered his first question. Possibly it had just been a courtesy anyway.

Jon sighed, half from Spencer's hands, half from confusion, "I'm not really sure."

Roughly twenty minutes later, they got the beginning of the answer.

Ryan somehow got into Jon's building, but waited outside his apartment door after knocking. Jon looked at him through the peephole for a long moment before letting him in.

Spencer said, "Hey, Ry."

Jon just looked at Ryan, waiting.

Ryan wrung his hands a little, pacing in front of them. "You love each other, right?" His voice was harsh, but his eyes demanded reassurance. They were hopeful.

Jon nodded in his direction and Spencer moved closer to him on the couch. They both looked at Ryan while Spencer said, "We do."

Ryan took a moment to let his relief and satisfaction show before saying, "But you - both of you - love Gerard too. Or you're beginning to."

Jon was more than a little stunned to hear those words ring out in the open between them.

He'd never actually let himself think about it in quite those terms, but every part of him agreed when Spencer repeated, "We do."

"And you won't hurt him," Jon allowed himself to be proud, hearing how flatly Ryan said it, how it was only just barely a question.

He answered, "We won't. Not if we can help it. Not without trying to make it right."

Ryan sucked in a breath, but nodded. He stopped pacing. He stared at them, eyes hard. Spencer titled his head, and Ryan's shoulder's relaxed.

He announced, with grave formality, "I give you my permission."

Jon wanted to laugh, although he wasn't entirely sure why. Spencer's face was shining, his smile was as bright as Jon had ever seen. In that moment, Jon settled for laughing for the sheer joy of it.

\---

Ryan hugged them both before he left. He hugged Spencer first, but that was largely a matter of course for their departures from each others' presence. Jon had never minded. He like to watch Spencer's smile against Ryan's shoulder as they clung to each other for that last moment before separating.

He was distracted by doing just that, and entirely missed Ryan extracting himself from Spencer in order to march over to Jon and pull him into a tight, bony hug.

It was the first time they'd done more than accidentally bump shoulders or hands in passing since their first, violent encounter.

Jon was momentarily tempted to pat Ryan awkwardly on the back and let go, but then Ryan murmured, "Sorry, Jon," and Jon had to shut him mouth and hold on, because otherwise he was likely to do something completely mortifying like tear up.

Besides, bony though they were, Ryan gave extremely excellent hugs.

When they finally stepped back from each other, it happened at once, seemingly the product of a silent agreement. He smiled helplessly, and Ryan did the same.

When he looked at Spencer, he was amazed to see his smile was even brighter still.

\---

The great tragedy of Jon's life was that, despite having somehow won Ryan over to their cause, that did not, in fact, automatically mean that Gerard was on board as well.

Jon and Spencer went over to the House the next evening, and while Ryan smiled hopefully and nudged Gerard with his shoulder as they walked into the living room, Gerard only smiled the same, wonky, regretful smile he always greeted them with, and Jon was man enough to admit his heart sunk so low he almost couldn't breathe for a minute.

Spencer's hand gripping his shoulder was all that got him to snap out of it enough to smile, and find a place on the floor beside Brendon and Ray.

Mikey came into the room a minute later, laden with bowls of popcorn and an economy-size bag of M&Ms, and they settled into movie night without resistance, talking only of whether it had been long enough since they watched Dawn of the Dead to merit a re-watch, and whether or not it was legitimate for Brendon to claim it was _never_ long enough for that to be the case.

If Gerard was suspiciously silent and Spencer's head was a little heavy on Jon's shoulder, no one said anything about it.

\---

 _Mikey_

Mikey was at the kitchen table, ostensibly to do the crossword. He had coffee. Ray had left a plate of cookies beside him, and a kiss on the top of his head before leaving for work half an hour previous. The coffee was strong, the cookies were the Russian tea biscuits with the little hazelnut bits in them that Ray had made for him on their first real date, the ones he'd slip into Mikey's bag on cold nights when he had to leave before they living together. He totally knew the eight-letter word for deliberate destruction, and the feel of Ray's hand, warm against the back of his neck, was still making his skin tingle.

And yet, he was not happy.

He was willing to entertain the notion that his lack of contentment had something to do with the fact that Ryan and Gerard were arguing with each other down the hall.

Ryan and Gerard's voices were too low for him to make out their actual words, but even from the living room, hushed as they were trying to be, he could hear enough to know that Ryan was angry, desperation creeping in, while Gerard's voice was oddly steady, a wall Ryan kept bashing his words against.

He closed his eyes and tried to listen harder, but he needn't have, because in that moment Ryan raised his voice, louder than Mikey had ever heard him, to say, "But I was wrong!"

Whatever Gerard said in response was too quiet to hear, but Mikey had had enough. He got up from the table and left the kitchen, down the hall and into the living room. He stood with his arms cross and regarded them both, a stern, strained look in his face.

"Ryan, go upstairs."

Ryan opened his mouth but Mikey cut off his protests, "Brendon's up there. You've been down here a long time, he'll need you."

Ryan closed his mouth, eyes narrowing mutinously for only a moment before he did as Mikey had told him, knowing he was right.

Gerard watched him go, and then turned his eyes down to look at his hands. "Thanks," he said softly.

Mikey had an angry noise in his throat. He turned away, but said, "There are dishes that need washing. Come on."

He didn't turn around until he got back into the kitchen, but when he did, Gerard was right behind him. Mikey walked to the stove and picked up a towel. He wrung it in his hands for a moment before handing it to Gerard.

"I'll wash, you dry."

Gerard nodded meekly, and they worked in silence through the plates.

When Mikey moved to pick up the first glass Gerard said, "Just cause he was getting between them and me for the wrong reasons, that doesn't mean it was the wrong thing to do in general."

"No. But it just so happens that it _was_ the wrong thing to do, in addition to being done for the wrong reasons."

Gerard sighed. "Spencer is _seventeen_ years old Mikey. _**Seventeen**_."

"I'm aware of that."

"And they already have each other - they're _right_ for each other. They fit."

"Not quite."

"Mikey--"

"No, Gerard, you listen to me. If you want to convince me, you have to do better than that. Say you don't want them, that we're all wrong to think you do, that even just the hope of having them with you isn't the happiest thought of its kind you've had in your life in years. But don't tell me it's because they don't want you, that you're wrong for them. And don't insult Spencer by saying it's cause he's young, or even that Jon is. Don't say that about two of the bravest, kindest, most emotionally responsible and fair-minded people I have ever met."

He handed Gerard the clean glass. Gerard took it from him and dried it. It took four glasses and a mug for Gerard to respond.

"I can't tell you that."

"Good, cause I'd just have to call you a liar." Mikey didn't smile, but he knew Gerard would be able to hear that he'd been thinking about it.

"I haven't been sleeping much," Gerard admitted once Mikey started on the cutlery.

He nodded. "I know."

Gerard looked at him sideways, ignoring the fork Mikey had just put in the dish-rack, and said, "You haven't either."

Mikey bent lower over the sink, washing more intently. "I've been worried."

Gerard put the towel down. He leaned in, hand clasping Mikey's forearm. "You don't have to be worried about the things you think you do. Not all by yourself."

Mikey swallowed. He thought about the way that Ryan had come to him the night before, bank statements and letters from his school explaining how his scholarship dispersal worked. About how Ryan had waved the pages in front of Mikey's face and demanded he let them pitch in more. He thought about Brendon, picking up piano lessons wherever he could for extra money and going to school and living in a new place and still finding the time and the ways to talk Ryan down from his fear, to remind him he could trust Spencer when Brendon had spent the better part of the summer in a cold-sweat, convinced he was going to lose Ryan to him. Thought about Brendon's capacity to change, to trust, to forgive. He thought about Gerard, coming down to the breakfast table most morning with paint on hands, or ink smudged on his face, never content to let a sleepless night go to waste, but still up every morning, finding energy to smile his special smile for each of them, finding strength to go to school every day, when school had been a place Gerard had spent so many years desperate to escape, all so he could teach teenagers how to sing. So he could be part of bringing music into their lives. He thought about the way Ray came home to all of them every night, but always ended it with Mikey.

He thought about that and he wanted to scream, to demand why - even though it happened every night - even though it had been happening every night for almost seven years - that was so hard to believe in.

Mikey said, "I know," and knew Gerard would understand it didn't mean the same thing as _I believe_.

Gerard held on tighter to Mikey's arm. He said, "Ray loves you more than he loves all of us put together. I mean, he loves us, he loves us a lot, and that's good. We're all a family and I couldn't stand it any other way, but he's here for you, Mikey. It's not like he just puts up with you so he can have the rest, so he can be a part of the things knowing you has let him be a part of. It's not for me or for Ryan and Brendon, for what all of us are together. It's for you. It's always been for you."

Mikey closed his eyes and considered. It was a kind of shitty thing to do to Ray, but ultimately, he figured Ray would forgive him the means so long as he actually got the desired ends. "I'll tell him that's what I'm afraid of if you tell Jon and Spencer why you're afraid to try for them."

Gerard spared a moment to look scandalized, and Mikey acknowledged that bargaining with honesty in his own relationship was stupid and possibly more than a little cruel. He said it with the raise of his eyebrows, but he didn't back down.

"You're kind of a son of a bitch," Gerard pointed out sourly.

Mikey smiled grimly. "You would know."

Gerard picked up the towel, but he held out his other hand, and Mikey reached out and curled his pinkie around Gerard's.

They had an accord.

\---

 _Jon_

Jon woke up to Spencer muttering against his neck. It was a thing he did sometimes, usually in his sleep, but sometimes when he was already awake but didn't want to face the light.

Spencer was repeating what Jon vaguely recognized as algebra proofs, which meant Spencer was likely still asleep. He shook Spencer gently and made a noise that was supposed to be "wake up, Spence," but came out more like "bleregh."

It did the job all the same, Spencer went still and quiet against him, no longer pressing his face into Jon's neck with such persistence. Slowly, he raised his face entirely away and blinked at Jon.

"S'morning?"

Jon nodded sadly. "I'm afraid so."

"It's Sunday," Spencer pointed out, with confidence and a little reproach. Sunday was supposed to mean morning kind of didn't matter until it was actually afternoon.

Jon kissed his nose. "I know. But we have that thing."

Spencer narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then realization dawned. "Oh, right."

 _That thing_ was brunch at the House. They'd obviously been going to dinners and movie nights and random afternoon hangouts and video game tournaments and jam sessions, but Sunday Brunch was like... the big leagues. It was... members only. It was a special tradition, a hybrid of sorts, parts transplanted from the best of Brendon and Ryan's family memories onto existing ones within the home Mikey and Ray had already built, and from Mikey and Gerard's childhood too. As far as he knew, not even Pete had ever been invited to one.

Mikey had issued the invitation. In person, and then he followed up in a text, because that was Mikey's way. Jon was seriously considering never deleting the text from his phone. Spencer might make fun of him, but Jon was pretty sure he wasn't planning to delete his either.

Jon looked at the clock, "We have to be there in an hour."

Spencer made a face, tired and scrunched, but nodded. "First shower." He hopped out of bed in a bout of oddly out-of-place energy, and Jon sighed and watched him go.

He closed his eyes and wished he lived in a world where Gerard was there to smile at him shyly and then race him to follow.

\----

 _Mikey_

After watching him be careful and reserved for over five months, Mikey was more than a little shocked by how quickly Spencer _moved_.

Without Ryan standing between them, he inserted himself into every available inch of Gerard's space. When Spencer and Jon arrived for brunch, the first thing Spencer did was stride across the room to greet Gerard with a slightly predatory smile and a hand pressed firmly against Gerard's elbow. Gerard stuttered and blinked, but Spencer backed off before Gerard's confusion could work itself into something legitimately verbal. Following in Spencer's wake, Jon's smile was softer, but its intent was no less clear, and he made a point of touching Gerard as well, placing his hand on the small of Gerard's back and steering him gently out of the way so Jon could claim the chair on one side of him and Spencer could take the other. Once they were both sitting down, they stared up at him expectantly, and Mikey allowed himself a surge of hope when Gerard wordlessly sat down between them, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Throughout the meal, Spencer capitalized on every available opportunity to touch, brushing his fingers against Gerard's when he passed him the plate of danish, propping his elbow on the table at the same moment Gerard did, bumping their shoulders when he asked, "Want to split the last bagel?"

Jon was, again, only slightly more subtle, and only in comparison to Spencer's utter lack of reserve. At one point, he leaned over and ate one of the grapes right off Gerard's plate. When Gerard squawked at him, pointing to the grapes still available on the fruit platter at the other end of the table, Spencer only smiled and said, "That one was closer."

Mikey might have said something about it--and meeting Ryan's eyes across the table, he knew he agreed--if it wasn't for the way that every time Spencer inserted himself closer and all Jon did was smile indulgently, Gerard would duck his head, as if he was trying to get his hair to hide the fact that his cheeks were tinged with pink.

\---

 _Jon_

Jon did his best to restrain himself at brunch, if only to make up for Spencer's almost total inability to do so. It was hardly Spencer's usual issue, and Jon thought he deserved to get away with it for once. More than that, he understood the desire all too well. There was so much wasted time to make up for. So much space that had been held stubbornly between them that was suddenly theirs to cross. He couldn't begrudge Spencer his lack of restraint in that area.

Not that everything had been decided. Ryan's permission was still a far cry from Gerard's consent. But the thing with Spencer was that, unlike Jon, who regularly gave himself up to moments of doubt, he had always resolutely believed that there was at least some part of Gerard that wanted them. His rationale, as far as Jon understood it, was that Ryan would have never kept him from them unless he thought they were something Gerard wanted that he couldn't have.

And now Ryan had said, _Okay_. And it meant so much more than that to Spencer, to both of them. It meant, _I trust you with him_. Jon was even allowing himself the hope that it meant, _I believe he wants it, too_. Enough to take that risk, enough to come to them and say he believed they might be what Gerard needed, insomuch as he was at least going to offer them the opportunity to try.

Jon still remembered the feel of the stucco digging into his back the first time he had met Ryan and made the mistake of touching, of _hurting_ , what was his. So he knew that kind of trust didn't come easily from Ryan. He still remembered the flinch Brendon hadn't been able to control when his fingers had brushed against Brendon's shoulder. Trust like that didn't come easily from either of them. But where Ryan went, in his heart, in his footsteps, Brendon went too. From what Jon could guess, though, it helped that sometimes, wary though he was, Brendon was the one doing the leading.

Brunch meant they had Mikey's permission too. His invitation, even. With that naturally came Ray's. Ray Toro wasn't the kind of guy you wanted to let down. Jon appreciated being trusted not to by the caliber of people who agreed.

Hell, Pete had called Jon three nights ago and said, "Are you still making Gerard wait? Man cannot live on coffee and music alone. Not even Gerard Way."

Add all that up, and it was no wonder Spencer couldn't stop himself from getting a little pushy, so eager to have the things he'd been barred from so long.

It was more than that too. Jon could see the determined edge in Spencer's eyes. It said, _see, I'm not just a kid. See, I know what I want, I can go after it_.

Jon felt all of that too, but for the moment he was content to sit back and let Spencer's actions speak for both of them.

\---

 _Mikey_

Ray was baking cookies when Mikey found him. It wasn't that hard, he just followed the smell that loosened the worry in his stomach, and the singing that made his hands itch to pick up his bass.

Ray turned a little and smiled when Mikey walked into the room, but he didn't press for conversation, just kept working, moving easily around Mikey, who stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, arms hugging his chest involuntarily.

Ray finished another pan of cookies (Ryan's favorite, chocolate chip with extra vanilla) and came to face Mikey, putting one of his hands on each of Mikey's elbows. Mikey pursed his lips but let Ray unfold his arms and move them gently to his sides.

Mikey stuck them in the belt loops of his jeans and Ray titled his head.

"You want to tell me?" he asked, leaving more than enough room for Mikey to say no.

Mikey considered his answer. He didn't really want to. But, "Have to."

Ray nodded. "That batch will take about 11 minutes."

Mikey smiled, trying to look calmer. This was nothing to burn Ryan's cookies over. "We can talk later."

Ray's mouth grew slightly pinched. Mikey hated that look. It meant he was going to be made to say all kinds of things he was afraid to.

"How about we talk now, and when the cookies are done, I'll just multitask a little. I'm good at it."

Mikey sighed. Ray was. He spent his days holding up about twelve different things at once, and usually made it look like he wasn't even trying. By and large, Mikey was just grateful for the capacities other people had to make up for the ones he lacked, but that was always something he'd been able to admit he envied about Ray.

Even now, Ray would let him slip away, not saying anything, and his renewed worry would be just another thing Ray would silently attend to. But he'd made a promise to Gerard, and more than that, Mikey knew it wasn't enough that Ray had always had his love. Mikey knew he also owed Ray his trust, and his truth.

So he opened his mouth, and straightened his shoulders, and he said, eyes fixed on Ray's face, "I'm afraid you'd go away. If it was just me. I'm afraid I'm not enough to stay for, on my own."

Ray's hand flew out to grab onto Mikey's wrist, his fingers making a complete circle around it. He held on, eyes closed, until he was satisfied enough that he could speak. "Jesus Christ, Mikey. I didn't move to fucking Las Vegas for Gerard. I mean, I love the guy, but I'd barely seen him outside your basement at that point. Hell, I'd only even known him for a few months in any kind of depth. And sure, now, yeah. Gerard is family, and I'd do anything for him, go anywhere. It's the same with Ryan and Brendon - someday soon, I hope to god, it'll be that way with Spencer and Jon, too. But none of that - _none of it_ \- would have happened if it weren't for you. None of it would matter, if I hadn't found you first, loved you first. If I hadn't - and do and _will always_ , love you best."

Mikey swallowed. "I know you believe that."

Ray looked at him sharply, face white and bordering on betrayed, "What, but you don't?"

Mikey gave in and looked down at his toes. "I want to. I'm trying."

"What the hell am I supposed to do? How can I prove it to you if seven years and two moves across the country aren't enough? That's not rhetorical - I don't care what it is, Mikey, just tell me and I'll do it." His voice was raw.

Mikey turned his face back up to Ray's. "I don't know. It should already be enough. Everything you do, every day, the ways you show me. It should be so much more than enough." He wasn't sure how to say the problem wasn't - had never been - with Ray. It was as if there was simply something missing inside of him, and he couldn't feel what that belief was like.

Ray nodded, like Mikey had given him a real answer. He put his hand to Mikey's head, tangling his fingers with Mikey's hair. He drew Mikey close like that, and Mikey moved his feet to aid Ray in his task.

"I guess I'll just have to try a bunch of different stuff until we find some things that work," Ray said, voice tight with determination.

Mikey held his breath and pressed his head closer against Ray's chest, listening to the sound of Ray's heart pounding. He wasn't sure if it would help, but he believed Ray completely when he said he would try.

He closed his eyes, and the timer on beside the oven chirped. Ray continued to hold on.

\---

He went to go see Brian the next morning. He made an appointment and everything. He felt a little weird, scheduling work time to talk about Bob, but Mikey needed Brian's full attention on this one.

As soon as he walked into Brian's office, Brian slumped back in his chair, hands spread out before him.

"I'm sorry I haven't gotten to this sooner," Brian said, sounding very apologetic indeed.

Mikey did a quick shake of his head, amazed that Brian, of all people, was actually already on the same page about an issue of this nature.

He said, "That's good." And smiled encouragingly. Maybe this was going to be simple after all.

Brian nodded. "I swear I meant to talk to you after you'd been here for three months, and it's been more than six and that's pushing it - hard. This is kind of a crazy time to be in the music business, you know it, but that's no excuse. You've been doing such great work, I honestly can't remember how we used to function without you. The way you've managed to keep Pete in line alone, fuck."

Mikey was trying to keep up, he really was, but in the end, all he could come up with was, "Um?"

Luckily, that wasn't too far from his regular form of response, so Brian carried on unconcerned, "Given the bumps you missed, talking to accounting, we can manage a four percent retroactive increase and a five percent permanent. And we really will check back in six months this time, I swear."

Mikey blinked. Slowly. "You're giving me a raise?"

Brian nodded earnestly. "Please don't quit."

Mikey's jaw was hanging open slightly, which made it easier to let the word, "Quit?" fall out.

Brian stared at him worriedly. "Is it not enough?"

Mikey forced his mouth to close before he could tell Brian he had the wrong idea completely, that they could just forget about this. He made himself think about how much the heating bill had been last month, about how little Ryan and Brendon were home anymore, they were both working so much. He was pretty sure that, in addition to piano and guitar lessons, Brendon was picking up shifts at the Starbucks where Jon worked. Ryan had one if not two on-campus jobs and was tutoring classmates for extra cash.

He met Brian's eyes and said, "No, it's great. It'll really help. Thank you."

Brian's shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank god. I really thought you were going to say you needed to start looking for a better offer."

Mikey shook his head hard. "No."

Brian smiled and said he'd get the paper work going that afternoon, which Mikey appreciated, his heart was pretty much dancing a jig about this whole conversation, but the problem was that he couldn't actually leave yet.

Brian eyed him expectantly, "Something else I can help you with?"

With a burst of momentum, courtesy of the giddy rush the thought of being able to tell Brendon and Ryan they were expected home at least three nights out of the week if they weren't out studying or with Jon and Spencer, Mikey simply blurted, "Bob."

Brian flinched back in his chair, clearly alarmed by this turn of events. "What about him?" He asked warily.

Mikey almost rolled his eyes, but he wasn't really in the mood. "Cut the poor guy some slack. He's just as romantically challenged as you are."

"What?"

Mikey scoffed a little, but it was closer to a fond laugh. He felt only slightly guilty when he said, "He likes you."

Brian's eyes widened, and he ran his hand roughly over his hair. His fauxhawk was undeterred. "What?"

Mikey could only resist so long, and allowed himself an exasperated eye roll. "Same way you like him. So stop being such an idiot, and accept that inviting you out for pizza and beer is the closest thing to a romantic overture either of you can manage."

"He likes me?" Brian demanded, completely incredulous.

Mikey wondered briefly if he should have ordered Bob to send Brian a note instead. "Yes."

"For how long?" If there was one thing you could say about Brian Schetcher, it was that he was a suspicious motherfucker.

Mikey smiled patiently. "For a long time. He's been trying to show you." He searched for a less ass-backwards example. "I've seen him try and hold doors open for you sometimes."

Brian laughed, "That's him trying to show me he wants to fuck?"

Mikey leveled Brian's laughter with a gaze. "For one thing, like you've been doing any better, ass. For another, if either of you was just interested in fucking, you've have gotten to it long ago, and I wouldn't be here in your office forcing you to have a conversation about your feelings."

This sobered Brian significantly. "Are you sure?"

Mikey knew what he was asking. The tone of his smile changed again. He was pretty much ecstatic for them. They'd both been alone way too fucking long. "Yeah."

"You don't think I'll fuck it up?"

Mikey considered the question seriously. He shrugged. "Not if he doesn't let you."

Brian's returning laugh was also of a different kind. Relief bubbling over into joy. "That's good enough for me."

Mikey nodded. "Damn right."

He got up to leave, pointing a finger at Brian and ordering him to call Bob before the end of the day, and Brian nodded but then paused, holding up a hand. "So wait, this wasn't about you wanting a raise at all?"

Mikey chuckled, the realization that he was getting one hitting him all over again. "Not at all, no."

Brian started massaging his left shoulder ruefully, shaking his head.

"I still want it though." Mikey assured him quickly.

Brian laughed. "I'd certainly say you've earned it."

Mikey grinned, and slipped out of the room. He had a job to do.

\---

Ray made lasagna that night to celebrate. He used the recipe Frank's mom gave him that she still hadn't given Frank (something Frank was sure to mention every time he saw or even spoke to Ray, Mikey, or anyone who had ever met Ray) and it was Mikey's favorite, but was kind of all of their favorites, which was sort of why Mikey liked it best.

It was something of a production, and the smells were just starting to fill up the house when Brendon and Ryan came home.

Mikey leaned against the banister and watched them trudge into the house. It was getting late, and even though they'd only had classes in the morning, Ryan had been working a shift in the records office where he'd managed to get a job, and Brendon smelled like coffee, almost too much, so he'd probably been at the 'bucks working all afternoon.

Ryan was moving slowly, and Brendon actually helped him out of his coat and tugged off his scarf, kissing his cheek and murmuring, "You want me to leave the hat?"

Ryan nodded tiredly, and Brendon guided him onto the couch by his shoulders. Once Brendon had deposited Ryan safely and ensconced him with pillows, he took a long inhale and then grinned at Mikey.

"What are we celebrating?"

Mikey grinned back, "Bob and Brian are on a date right now!"

Brendon immediately threw up his hand and Mikey high-fived him with the enthusiasm this development warranted.

Ray had wandered into the living room by this point, and added, pointed but mostly just proud, "and Mikey got a raise at work."

From the couch, Ryan's eyes widened and he tried to sit up straighter, but Mikey waved him down. He could see the pride in Ryan's face just fine.

Brendon, however, succumb to his excitement despite his obvious exhaustion, and bust out some celebratory dance moves, which basically involved some jazz hands and a lot of wiggling of his hips. There was some jumping as well. Mikey didn't even try to hide his adoring grin.

"I wish I could twirl you! Ray, have you given Mikey his victory twirl?" Brendon demanded as though it was a matter of honor.

Ray laughed and said, "I hadn't actually gotten around to it yet."

Brendon waved an imperious hand. "Well, come on now!"

Ray glanced at Mikey, checking, and Mikey put his hands up in surrender.

Ray smiled triumphantly, and crossed the room to Mikey's side. Mikey held up his arms, and Ray lifted him easily off the ground. He clung to Ray's chest, and closed his eyes, laughing helplessly as Ray spun him around the room.

As they moved together, Mikey felt, if only for that moment, that all his troubles were too far below him to touch.

\---

Gerard got home about twenty minutes later.

He'd been on his way home when Mikey called with him the news, and after he'd shouted, "Fucking A, Mikey!" in relation, Mikey assumed, to both pieces of news, there'd been a long silence that Gerard eventually ended by saying, "I should call Jon and Spencer. Invite them over to celebrate."

Mikey had cheered silently, but said aloud, rather more calmly, "That's a great idea. You should."

Gerard had promised he would, and so Mikey wasn't surprised that Gerard was late coming home, and that he had Spencer and Jon with him when he did.

Gerard enveloped Mikey in a hug first thing, but Jon and Spencer got in pats on his shoulders while that happened. Mikey smiled into Gerard's shoulder until his face hurt, and only then did he let go.

He watched the way Spencer and Jon subtly reclaimed Gerard's proximity in fascinated delight. Even better was the way that Gerard smiled contently and just seemed to accept the way they hovered at his sides, not possessively even, just naturally, like they knew they belonged there.

Dinner was lively, delicious, and Mikey and Ryan competed over who could eat more plates of lasagna but eventually had to call it a draw. Jon got in briefly as a contender, but had to bow out after the third plate while Mikey and Ryan made it into their fourth before they cried uncle and allowed Ray to put them away for later. Mikey was seriously considering having his for breakfast the next morning.

After dinner and the half hour or so of lounging around the living room in a stuff stupor, Gerard offered to drive Jon and Spencer home at almost the same moment that Ray announced he was done sharing Mikey for the evening, and that they were going to an undisclosed location for similarly undisclosed purposes.

Mikey didn't even question it, he just said, "I guess we are," and let Ray hustle him into his coat.

Ryan was half asleep on Brendon's lap, and as such, barely noticed they were leaving, but Brendon waved a "go ahead hand" and said, "We'll hold down the fort."

Mikey smiled with utter confidence and followed Ray out of the house.

They only had one car, and Gerard was obviously using that to transport and - god willing - have some kind of a serious conversation with Jon and Spencer, but Ray assured Mikey they could walk it.

Mikey hooked his arm with Ray's when he held it out expectantly, and trusted him to get them wherever they were going.

It took almost 20 minutes, almost too much on a December evening in Chicago, and Mikey almost missed the fact that they were at their destination, it was such a cramped, unassuming building.

The faded awning read, "TATTOOS."

Mikey turned to stare at Ray questioningly.

"For me?" He asked, bewildered. He'd never had Gerard's fear of needles, but all the same, nothing had ever quite struck him as being the sort of thing he wanted permanently on his skin. It wasn't that he didn't like the idea in general, he just didn't quite know what he had a right to claim like that. He and Gerard already bore their marks of relationship and belonging in all kinds of visible ways.

Ray shook his head. "For me."

That surprised him even more. Ray had never said a word to him about wanting a tattoo, not in the whole time they'd known each other.

"Of what?"

Ray smiled, "You'll see."

They walked in, but there was no one at the desk. The only person in the place was a girl - a woman, with multiple piercings on her face and a swallow tattoo on her neck. When she saw them she smiled, wide and welcoming and said, "Fresh meat!"

If he wasn't living back in Jersey, and also possibly back with Jamia, Mikey would have considered introducing her to Frank.

Ray waved slightly. "I'm Ray Toro, I called you about stopping by tonight."

She nodded. "Hell yeah, is this your boy?" Nodding at Mikey.

He startled slightly. It wasn't that they weren't open about their relationship, he just rarely thought of Ray speaking of him as such to strangers.

But Ray was beaming, nodding. Mikey wondered if half of what he was afraid of was there because he'd spent too many of his days hiding with Ray inside, worrying over what was out of their little bubble that might take Ray from him, rather than stepping proudly out with him into the world.

He was kind of doubtful it was anything that simple, but he liked the look in Ray's eyes in that moment. He liked it a fucking lot.

Ray held out his right hand, spreading his fingers out before her. Mikey stared, as he was inclined to do. He loved Ray's hands.

"What we talked about," Ray was saying to her. "Around the ring finger."

She nodded. "I can definitely do that."

Mikey held up his face, a question, but Ray just repeated, "You'll see."

She and Ray murmured a few things to each other, Mikey gathered about the stencil, and then she motioned Ray the appropriate chair. Mikey took the regular looking chair directly beside it.

"If it's going on your right hand, I can hold your left," he told Ray.

Ray held out his hand, "Why do you think I brought you?"

Mikey smiled a little and ducked his head. He kind of wanted to bury his face in Ray's arm.

The tattoo artist, Melanie she'd told them, winked at him.

"Sweet guy you've got," she said to Mikey.

He nodded fiercely. "I know." He might still be afraid he was going to lose him, but Mikey knew for damn sure what he had.

She went away to prepare the stencil, and Mikey tried again, "What are you getting?"

But Ray just shook his head. "Patience Mikey."

Mikey sighed. Patience.

Melanie came back and pressed the design against Ray's finger, it was small, wrapping just slightly around the curve, but almost laying flat. Mikey craned his neck. Facing him, Ray's finger read, _M. J. W_. in small, simple script. Small as it was, it was clear enough to see. When it was inked, it would be clear from almost far away.

Mikey's hand clenched down on Ray's left. "Why are you... why my initials...?"

Ray looked at him seriously. "Because that's who I belong to."

Mikey swallowed, and looked down at his own hand. "Can you do me next?"

Melanie grinned. "You bet."

\---  
 _  
Jon_

Gerard was a careful driver. Kind of overly careful, and slow, like old ladies were supposed to be. Jon wouldn't know. The only old lady he ever drove with was his grandma, and she was pretty much a speed demon. Very unlike Gerard.

Who drove so slow, and hesitated over so many yellow lights that it caused Spencer to make these hilarious little exasperated squeaks as he struggled to hold in his inherent need to backseat drive.

Jon had always assumed Gerard didn't notice - it wasn't like he drove them around all that often, but that night, coming home from Mikey's raise and matchmaking celebration, Jon caught Gerard's knowing smile in the rear-view mirror in time with one of Spencer's more pronounced strangled comments.

Jon was full of delicious food, and Gerard had actually picked up a phone and called them earlier in the day. He was feeling more than a little brazen. So he didn't stop himself from leaning forward in the backseat, whispering into Spencer's ear. "Tell him what to do."

Spencer craned his neck back snappishly, face wide and surprised, but Jon just nodded.

Gerard missed another light and Spencer said, "If you weren't going an average of five miles under the speed limit, you'd probably be able to keep up with the rest of traffic better." His hand actually flew over his mouth right after he said it, but Gerard just nodded.

"I know."

Spencer gaped for a second, staring back and forth between Gerard and Jon. Jon mouthed, "Go on," and Spencer swallowed, turning back in his seat to look at Gerard. The light changed.

"Go faster," he commanded firmly.

Gerard complied.

\---

Spencer directed Gerard's every turn and press of the pedal until they got to Jon's apartment. They got there safely, and in record time, and when he got out of the car, Jon was not surprised to discover what Spencer's face was blazing, proud and triumphant.

Gerard got out of the car with them, his parking job, also directed by Spencer, was perfect. Jon took a moment to admire it.

The street was pretty full, and Jon had initially doubted they'd be able to squeeze into the remaining space directly in front of their building, but Spencer had insisted, and coached through it with a lot of craning around and the occasional pointer from Jon.

Gerard smiled at Jon, sharing his appreciation. "Perfect fit."

Jon grabbed Spencer's hand and held him there, because Spencer looked ready to lunge, or, knowing Spencer, actually start to yell at the heavens about how the three of them were way more impressively suited to each other than Gerard's car and the space he'd managed to fit it into. As much as he understood the impulse, Gerard didn't look nearly ready for that yet.

But when Gerard walked with them up to the door of the building, and before they turned to go inside, he reached out with a careful hand, and Jon and Spencer each took a turn squeezing it before they said their final good-night.

As they trudged up the stairs Spencer remarked softly, "I miss him." _Already_.

Jon sighed. "Yeah."

\---

This became something of a routine. They'd go over to the House for dinner, for movies, all the same things, but at the end of the night, or afternoon, Gerard always drove them home, and Jon sat in the back while Spencer rode shotgun and told Gerard where to go and how fast and _yes you **can** make that light it **just** turned yellow, drive you fool!_

 __Mostly, aside from Spencer's outbursts, they drove in silence. Sometimes it seemed like Gerard was going to say something - he even opened his mouth occasionally, muttered something about Mikey, and then frowned at himself, but it never really went further.

They got through the holiday season like that, Christmas passing quietly, pleasantly, and then on New Year's, even though it was ridiculously late and they'd planned on just staying over, Gerard got up and went for his keys like he always did when he noticed Spencer was getting cranky in the way that meant he was tired and needed to be away from people, or when Jon started drifting off and not finishing half his sentences.

Gerard was still sober, of course, they all pretty much were; one or two glasses of champagne and too much chocolate was the most any of them had had, so three a.m. aside, when Gerard jangled the keys, Jon and Spencer got up and followed him out of the house.

They were about half way back to Jon's apartment when Gerard said, in a resigned kind of tone, "I don't. I'm not sure what this is, with us, and I don't think - I don't presume I'd ever have a chance to - or that you'd want me like I... I know I'm not old like... creepy, or I hope I'm not but - that's. That's not like, good enough reason to try and insert myself between you and I feel like I'm doing my best not to but I still see myself doing it, letting it happen and I promised Mikey I would tell you that I - that I want what I don't have any right to, because he thought it was important and Mikey tends to be smarter than me. I think you're both--"  
 _  
_"Pull over!" Spencer shouted, clearly unable to take it anymore. Jon wa actually pretty impressed he lasted that long. His own knuckles were white, fingers wrapped so tightly around his knees.

Gerard kept driving.

Spencer's voice got kind of shrieky, "Pull over so I can yell at you!"

Gerard glances at him pointedly.

Spencer glared. "Properly yell at you. You haven't seen anything yet, buddy."

Jon could tell Gerard was skeptical, but he knew better. Spencer was barely getting started.

Spencer hissed, "Left," and Gerard turned onto a side street, and when Spencer said, "There," Gerard seemed to know what he meant, and pulled over in the nearest available spot.

Spencer took a few seething breaths. "You called yourself creepy!"

That wasn't technically true, but it was the spirit of the thing. Probably. Jon was too pissed to correct him.

"No, I was just... even if I'm not creepy - that doesn't somehow mean I should be--"

Spencer made a very alarming noise. It almost sounded like a snarl, only it was too high pitched.

Jon sighed.

"Gerard. You should really just sit quietly and let him get this out of his system. He's been developing an eye twitch."

"I am not okay with giving Spencer at eye twitch! That's exactly what I'm--"

Jon held up a hand. "Gee. Really. Shut up."

Spencer looked at him gratefully for a second, took a deep breath, and yelled for five minutes straight about how stupid Gerard was. Even for Spencer, it was extremely impressive. Jon lost count of how many times he said, "fucker," or referred to Gerard as "someone suspiciously blind for an artist," and just sat back and felt his fear and frustration bleed out of him with every exclamation.

When he finally lost his momentum, Spencer's shoulders slumped in exhaustion and he said, "So... so there. Stop being so stupid. It's making Jon sad."

Jon opened his mouth to contradict him, but then closed it. It was the truth, after all. Even if it was only half of it.

Gerard hung his head. Jon couldn't lie to him, but he could lean forward in his seat and put his hand on Gerard's neck. "You can make it up to me." _Us_.

Gerard turned and looked at him. "I honestly don't see how."

This time _Spencer_ was the one Jon told to shut up. Spencer listened. Then Jon said, "We kind of love you. Maybe you've missed that?"

Gerard's eyes widened.

Jon smiled sadly. "That would be the whole blind thing Spencer was talking about. I know he was going pretty fast, but I hope you caught most of it. That was good stuff."

Spencer nodded emphatically, but stayed silent.

"But... the two of you. I don't understand why you'd bother with me. I'm..." he stopped his thought upon receiving a warning glare from Spencer and settled for, "you already have each other."

"We've been friends a long time. And we pretty much always knew we'd be ready to love each other like this someday. But it never clicked, never felt right. Not until we met you." Jon spoke softly, his voice patient.

Gerard was looking pretty boggled. Jon didn't really think it was fair that he had sat calmly through Spencer's rant but was now practically shaking when all Jon was doing was trying to break it to him a little gentler.

"You're together." Gerard insisted, as though this negated everything else that had been said.

Jon shook his head. "No. Not exactly. We've talked about it, and we've spent more nights together, but just sleeping, that's all. We haven't even kissed." Jon hoped Gerard understood what a sacrifice this was. He _really_ wanted to kiss Spencer. But he kind of only wanted to do it if Gerard was there watching, waiting for his turn.

Gerard lost a whole minute, staring at Spencer's mouth before he said, blankly, "What have you been waiting for?" in a tone that satisfied Jon that Gerard clearly understood what he'd been missing.

Spencer hit the roof of the car with his hand, and Jon let him off his leash with a nod, "You, motherfucker! We've been waiting for _you_!"

Gerard blinked. He looked at the space between them, at the way they were both straining towards him despite the confines of the vehicle. He started to smile. It was the prettiest one Jon had ever seen on his lips. Out of that smile slipped a surprised and pleased, "Oh."

"Oh," Spencer scoffed, rolling his eyes. " _Oh_."

He was still afraid, under the bravado, Jon could hear it, and apparently Gerard could to, cause he reached out and grabbed one of Spencer's hands as he flicked his wrist dismissively, holding him still.

"Jon said I was allowed to make it up to you," Gerard said, voice steady.

Spencer nodded, looking at once older, and younger than Jon had ever seen.

"If you try very hard," he responded, keeping his voice impressively even.

Gerard leaned closer, closing the distance between them, and pressed his lips to Spencer's forehead. "Thank you."

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, and said, "Any time."

Jon cleared his throat and they both turned to him at once, heads still pressed together, identical smiles on their faces. Warm, inviting, and just a little bit wicked. He smiled back the same way. He was so fucking in love with both of them.

\---

Making it up to them, in Gerard's world, apparently started with chaste good-night kisses on each of their cheeks, and the solemn request of, "a date, just the three of us," the following evening.

Gerard wouldn't tell them where, but he promised to let Spencer tell him how to get there, so they allowed him to keep his secret for the moment.

They walked up to Jon's apartment in a stunned daze, but as they stood in front of Jon's living room window, light on to let Gerard know they'd gotten in all right, just like always, that night, so different than all the other times that had come before, that as they watched Gerard drive away, they knew, with absolute certainty, that he would be coming back. For both of them.

\---

 _Mikey_

Gerard came home at four in the morning on New Year's Eve, and Mikey was still up waiting for him. Ray was sitting on the couch beside him, and Brendon and Ryan were dozing in a pile of pillows at their feet.

Gerard looked like he hadn't stopped smiling in so long that he'd forgotten how to stop, and when he said, "We're going on a date, me and them," Mikey very nearly collapsed with relief. He might have, but Ray was there to hold him up.

Ryan lifted his head from Brendon's chest, smile wide and proud. "They're going to treat you right," he promised, and Gerard laughed.

"Was that what you were worried about?"

Ryan refused to look sheepish, he just held his chin up, continuing to meet Gerard's eyes. Gee knelt down and bumped his head gently into Ryan's. Ryan lowered his head, but in a moment, responded in kind.

Brendon stayed lying where he was, but he opened his arms and commanded, "share," and they both tumbled onto him, sandwiching Brendon between them, each taking a shoulder to rest their heads on.

Ray yawned and groped blindly at the table-lamp beside them, and after a few attempts, turned off the light.

Mikey tugged the blanket that was covering him and Ray closer to his chin, and felt himself drift to sleep to the sounds of his family breathing steadily around him.

\---  
 _  
Jon_

Gerard picked them up for their date at seven. He looked kind of sad, which Jon wasn't thrilled about, but he kissed each other their cheeks hello, which he pretty much was. He looked tired too, like he hadn't gotten anything like enough sleep, but Jon hadn't been able to sleep much the past night either, his mind was so alight with possibilities. He told himself, firmly, that there was no reason to assume Gerard's reasons were any different.

Jon shook out the confusion, while Gee gave Spencer the address of the place they were going, and then let Spencer tell him how to get there.

As usual, aside from Spencer's instructions, they drove without talking. Also as usual, Jon got to pick the radio station.

The restaurant turned out to be a small Italian place Jon thought he remembered Ray mentioning wanting to try. It looked a little formal, not really Jon's taste, or, he would have thought, Gerard's, but Spencer smiled warmly and said, "My parents like going here."

Jon nodded to himself. Spencer's parents tended to have excellent taste.

Gerard's face flinched a little, and Jon narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out why, but Gerard put a hand on each of their shoulders, ushering them forward, and Jon decided to leave his confusion alone for the time being.

The maitre de was a little slow letting them in, doing a skeptical double take when Gerard walked up and said, "Way, table for three." She pursed her lips, tilting her head consideringly, but eventually showed them to their table.

They had a nice table, not quite in the middle of the room, but not cramped away in a corner. Jon liked the lighting in the place, the dark reds of the table cloths. It was cozy... romantic. As he looked around, he swallowed hard, something cold settling into his stomach. There were a few larger parties, but even within the groups, it was all couples. Single dates, double dates. Two by two, men and women. No same sex couples, certainly no 30-year-olds out for their first date with two kids barely out of high school. Jon felt suddenly stupid and ridiculous in his v-neck and hand-me down blazer. When he looked across the table, Spencer was picking furiously at the frayed cuff of his cordory coat. It was his favorite, blue cord with brass buttons. He was wearing a brown sweater underneath, and the kitten pin Jon had given him in the 9th grade was on the lapel of his coat.

When Spencer finally gave up his frantic fussing and met Jon's eyes, he could see Spence was fighting back a scream, or worse.

Jon clenched his hand into a fist on the table, counting to ten before he finally looked across to Gerard. He didn't look surprised, or similarly uncomfortable. He looked sad. Guilty.

So he'd known, then.

Before Jon could speak, their waitress came, holding her pad out almost protectively between herself and them, a barely restrained look of contempt on her face. She cocked her hips and said, "Can I start some drinks for you, sir?" focusing only on Gerard.

He met her eyes, asked for waters for all of them, and she nodded tersely and walked away.

Jon put his hand to his forehead, trying to pull himself together, but Spencer was making no such attempt. He threw his napkin down violently, and Jon jerked his head from his hand just in time to see Spencer push himself from the table and all but ran in the direction of the men's washroom.

Jon was out of his chair the next instant. He paused long enough to stare at Gerard and say, "I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work, but fuck you anyway," and then raced after Spencer.

He pushed through the bathroom door and immediately wished he could unsee the picture before him. Spencer hadn't even made it into one of the stalls, he was just standing in the middle of the room, back turned to the door, shoulders heaving, breath coming in and out in ragged little gasps.

Jon ran to him, pulled him close, and Spencer pressed his fists against Jon's chest, "I'm not crying," he insisted, voice steely, and it was true. Spencer held his face up for Jon to see. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright, but there were no tears.

Jon put his thumb to Spencer's cheek. "It'd be okay if you were."

Spencer shook his head. "You wouldn't forgive him if he made me cry on the first date."

Jon laughed a little, because it was that or start to cry himself, and the fact of the matter was Spencer probably had exactly the same rule about Jon.

He closed his eyes, and they held each other until they felt like they could breathe again.

After they broke apart, Spencer titled up his chin, and said, "Would you kiss me, just like this? Just me?"

Jon's hands flew up to cup Spencer's face and he answered, "Any way you liked. If I thought you really meant that."

Spencer held his ground for a beat, but then closed his eyes, stepping back, out of Jon's reach.

Jon smiled a little, because Spencer deserved a smile right about then. "I love you Spence."

Spencer nodded grimly. "I love you too."

\---

 

Spencer was still in danger of throwing things, so Jon told him to wait outside while he went and got Gerard.

Spencer muttered, "We should leave him there," and as much as Jon agreed, they both knew they couldn't.

That was what Gerard wanted them to do.

Jon kissed Spencer's forehead and watched him duck out of the bathroom, weaving through the tables and out the door. Then he took a deep breath, and walked in the opposite direction.

Gerard was still sitting at their table, as expected. His head was down, when Jon got closer he realized Gerard was drawing on a napkin. It was a hand clenched in a fist. Jon looked down at his own. They matched.

Jon stayed standing, glaring down at Gerard. People were starting to stare. It occurred to Jon that he didn't really give a damn.

"This was a stupid fucking thing to do." Jon informed Gerard flatly, causing him to look up.

He nodded. "But you see now, right?"

Jon scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand. "I see that you're a lot fucking dumber than we realized. I see you can be cruel. I get it. It's a bad deal all around."

Gerard looked at him, and his eyes were so clear, so sorry, that Jon didn't know how he could think for a minute they were going to walk away from him. From this.

"There's no place for us."

Jon shrugged, "So we'll make one. We'll find our way. Knowing it's going to be hard... that doesn't change how we feel. If it changes how _you_ feel - if that's what this is actually about, you need to tell me now, because I'm not putting Spencer through another freakshow like this. Not even for you. And, just in case you still haven't gotten this yet, I'm pretty fucking in love with you. So please, think carefully."

Gerard didn't even blink. "That's not what this is about."

Okay. "You wanna tell me what is was about?" All things considered, Jon felt he deserved to hear Gerard actually say it.

Gerard met him head on. "I'm not good at letting things go once I have them. Addictive personality." Jon knew, but it wasn't exactly the response he'd been expecting.

He raised his eyebrows, asking for more.

Gerard opened his palms up to Jon. "Last chance."

There it was.

"To back out?" He tisked. "Pass."

"Jon--"

"Pass, Gerard."

Gerard nodded shakily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alright. You're right. You both told me you wanted this, and I even believed you. I just. I had to at least feel like I'd given you the chance, a real one, to get out."

Jon closed his eyes. "We don't want one."

When he opened his eyes again, Gerard was watching Jon like... well, like he was finally seeing him. Looking at him like he actually believed Jon was there. There was hope in his eyes.

Jon couldn't hold in the sigh of relief, the shift in his shoulders. "Are you officially done sabotaging us?"

Gerard looked down at his drawing, and then back up at Jon. "Yeah."

Jon nodded. "Okay then. Let's go tell Spencer how good he looks tonight."

Gerard smiled for the first time that evening. "He does look damn good."

Jon held out his hand, and pulled Gerard up. "I know."

\---

They walked in silence; no one tried to stop them from leaving. Just before their exited the building, Gerard reached out hesitantly and after a moment of debate, Jon gave Gee his hand. Gerard's fingers were cold, but he held on painfully tight. Jon could take it.

Spencer was leaning against Gerard's car, arms crossed, glaring at the sky. When he saw them, Gerard opened his mouth to speak, but Spencer held up a hand. "Are you done being stupid?"

"Yes."

"Are you sorry?"

"Yes."

Spencer pointed a finger at him sharply. "You're buying us ice cream."

Gerard nodded. "I should think so. Mint chocolate chip?"

Spencer's favorite.

He held up two fingers. "Two scoops."

Gerard smiled. "Let's make it three."

 **The end**

 

 _Coda (Mikey)_

Mikey loved his tattoo. He kind of loved Ray's more, loved seeing it from across a room, loved watching other people's eyes fall on it for the first time, loved the low, pleased growl of mine it always set off in his stomach. And when Ray wasn't there, when it was there for him to look at, he still had his own. And that helped. It was good.

But there were other things too. Reminders Mikey hadn't thought to ask for, because he simply hadn't known what he needed.

Luckily for him, Ray was smarter.

Mostly it was little things. Ray said Mikey's name more, told him he loved him more. Easy, natural, as though the words had always been on the tip of his tongue, but he hadn't always thought Mikey wanted to hear them. They spent more time, just the two of them. They went out more. Mikey liked it best when they went places they could walk close together, holding hands, their tattooed fingers tangled together.

There was something else too. He almost hadn't noticed it at first, but Ray had started to hold him down sometimes. Not enough to hurt him, never that, just enough to keep him where he was. Keep him with Ray. Sometimes it was during sex, but just as likely they'd be sitting together watching TV and Mikey would move to get up, but Ray's hand would be there, stopping him, or the phone would ring and Ray would hold Mikey's shoulders tighter with his arm. He never stopped Mikey from going somewhere when he truly needed to, but when there was time to spare, or another person to do the work Mikey had been about to, Ray started to consistently keep Mikey at his side.

He wasn't sure, exactly, if any of it, or all of it together, would ever be enough to completely settle the creeping doubts in his head when Ray wasn't there, but Mikey couldn't deny that he was feeling a hell of a lot better when he was. And slowly, bit by bit, he was finding it easier to believe he was the thing Ray kept coming back for.


	4. took no photos of any ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom comes back to Chicago, and to Pete. _Pete Wentz/Tom Conrad_ (background Gerard/Spencer/Jon, Ryan/Brendon, Mikey/Ray...)

Pete got the call at 7:15. He glared at his phone in growing confusion as he realized two things at once. It wasn't going to stop ringing, and it really was 7:15. A.M.

He considered throwing it at the wall and going back to sleep - he didn't even recognize the number - but he kind of liked that phone. So he picked up.

"Dude, I'm at the bus depot. Come get me."

Pete shook his head a few times. Rigorously.

"Um, hi?"

The person on the other line made an impatient noise. "JWalk wouldn't answer his fucking phone. Because he's a married man now or some shit. I'm freezing my balls off, come get me."

Pete scrubbed his face with a firm hand. It didn't help. "Tom?"

A laugh. "Pete. You lazy fucker. Come get me."

Against all odds and his considerably low but still existent sense of self-preservation, Pete heard himself say, "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Stop bitching."

Tom laughed again, and Pete hung up.

He started looking for his keys, and then revised his plans. Pants first. Then keys.

\---

He found his keys first, but that was kind of the way his luck went. He didn't recognize the pair of jeans he eventually found, but he plucked them off the bedroom floor all the same. They looked like they had probably once belonged to a girl, but he came up short when he tried to remember if the one from last night, the drummer from a band he didn't know the name of, which would help with denying it with Patrick later, had been wearing pants or a skirt. He only remembered her hair, short, but soft, and the way she had laughed at him when he told her she could stay. It hadn't been the usual jaded chuckle. It had been light. Cheerful almost. She'd been gone before he was even fully asleep, maybe too quickly to remember her pants, but unlikely, since it was February in Chicago and if anything, bad taste aside, she had struck him as a practical kind of girl. It was always possible the pants actually did belong to Pete and he just hadn't seen them in awhile. Sometimes he bought things without really looking at them.

They mostly fit him, which was probably the main thing. Beyond that, he gave answering the question up as a bad job, shrugging to himself and pulling on his coat.

He'd half expected it not to, but apparently it was Tom's lucky day, because Pete's car actually started. He warmed it up for a good ten minutes, partly because it was necessary and partly out of spite, and then starting driving in the direction of the bus depot.

When he pulled into the parking lot, he couldn't see Tom, and he considered driving away, but if he ever got wind of it JWalk would probably never forgive him, so he got out of the car and shuffled into the building. It took him two scans of the space to finally spot Tom, chatting cheerfully with a couple of teenage girls. Tom was just barely out of being a teenager himself, and Pete couldn't exactly say he had principles about that sort of thing, but the fact was that there was only so much a guy could take when it wasn't even eight a.m.

He stomped over and hit Tom in between his shoulder blades to announce himself.

Tom spun around and enveloped Pete in a hug. It was unexpected, but Pete loved hugs, so he squeezed back. Tom held on for a long time; Pete found himself in no rush to let go.

"Hey," Tom said, all smiles.

Pete scrunched his face at the disconnect between this Tom and the one he'd spoken to on the phone.

"What's up?" Pete said rhetorically, nodding hello.

Tom slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and waved goodbye to the girls.

"Let's blow this Popsicle stand."

Pete rolled his eyes, but followed him. "Really?"

Tom laughed.

\---

In the car, what probably should have occurred to him first thing finally occurred to Pete. He tried to find a way to ask the question with sensitivity, but that wasn't really his strong suit, nor was patience, so he pretty much just blurted, "Aren't you supposed to be on tour right now?"

Tom's hands closed over the the dash, nails digging into the upholstery, but he just smiled and said, "Yep." He didn't say anything else, just looked at Pete. Not entreating, not asking, just... blank. Drained.

Pete wasn't one not to press, but he knew that look.

Tom hadn't exactly dropped out of high school to go on the road with Bill and the Butcher and whoever they were getting to play bass that week (usually but not always Siska), but it'd basically been his whole life since he was 16. Pete understood, and had thought for a time that Jon was going to join Tom on the road, but Jon had always had Spencer. Not holding him down exactly, just giving him a reason to stay.

Pete had always kind of assumed Bill was Tom's reason to go. Looking at him now, he wondered if maybe he'd been a little too right about that.

\---

Tom had apparently been sleeping on the bus for the past three days, and didn't want to sleep. Pete kind of did, peeling off his clothes and crawling back into bed sounded _awesome_ , in fact, but sitting on one of the stools in his kitchen and watching Tom made coffee wasn't a terrible second choice.

While the coffee was brewing, Tom rooted around in Pete's fridge and cupboards. He concluded his search with an unimpressed face aimed in Pete's general direction.

"You have no food."

Pete shrugged. "I go out."

Tom looked around. The place was a total mess, boxes of takeout and magazines everywhere. It was, Pete would tell anyone who asked, exactly how he liked it.

"Sure you do."

Pete scrunched his face defensively. "Sometimes Patrick brings me groceries." Sometimes Ray did too. Toro was too fucking nice a guy.

Tom crossed his arms, leaning against the counter next to Pete's sink. "Aren't _you_ supposed to be on tour right now?"

Pete waved a hand. "We're a Chicago band. We like to stay with our people."

Also Joe was like... in love or something. It made him all plantlike. In that he refused to travel. And sometimes, come to practice. Whatever. Pete's metaphors would be better once he had coffee.

Just as though he had freaky mind powers like Spencer and Ryan, Tom handed Pete a cup of coffee.

"I like lots of sugar in it," Pete noted, eying it warily.

Tom snorted. "No shit."

Pete wasn't exactly sure how Tom knew this, except that he clearly had many spies. Or, well, Jon Walker.

It wasn't that he and Tom didn't know each other, they'd practically grown up together, Pete and his guys, Jon and Tom and Nick and all their little baby bands following in their wake. Coming into their own. There'd always been a house party, or a basement show, all throughout college, and Pete had almost never gone a weekend without seeing Jon and Tom and Spencer hanging off each other, trying to stay up, at least once. Later, there'd been Bill and Andy and Mike and they'd sort of pulled Tom into their orbit while Jon was too busy looking at Spencer, but all of them were close. Jon had always been Pete's favorite, cause Jon was all the sweetness you shouldn't expect in a scene kid with a mouth like Spencer Smith's always on his arm, and he knew how to make awesome coffee, and take pictures of ordinary things and make them look special. Liking Tom had mostly started out as an extension of that, although he had come to appreciate him in his own right. Tom was a weird little dude, which, considering Pete was the one making the assessment, said something. Jon, for all the he was strangely sweet and always the most likely person to try and show you a picture of their cat, no matter the location, he could get fairly boisterous when the mood struck him, especially when they were younger, whereas Tom had always seemed content to hug the edges of that, smiling, watching out. Some might have chosen to call it 'lurking in the shadows,' but whatever, Pete liked that in a guy, maybe just because it was one less person he was competing with for the center spot.

They'd all graduated, by the skin of his teeth in Tom's case, and Jon had started going to school while Tom had started going on the road all the time. It'd been over a year since Pete had seen him settled in any way. Hardly even standing still. _The Academy Was..._ was starting to be kind of a big deal, from what Pete knew from talking to Brian. A lot of buzz had been growing about them, especially that fall. But, considering that Tom was standing in his kitchen, Pete wasn't exactly sure this was news to be celebrated in present company.

Pete opened his mouth to try and ask him about it again, but Tom just said, "Drink your coffee," and for some reason, Pete listened to him.

About two thirds of the way in, Tom asked, "So what do you want to do today?"

Pete squinted into his cup. It totally wasn't an illusion. He really had drunk almost the whole thing. "Things usually make more sense by now," he muttered to himself.

He looked up at Tom, who looked tired under the giddy thrum of energy. Who looked too thin under his black t-shirt.

He tried to remember that if there was an Adult in the room it was technically supposed to be him.

Mostly, Tom smiled at him hopefully, and Pete failed at doing anything like remembering that, or anything else for that matter. Along with his first name.

Responsibility was just going to have to wait.

Pete smiled helplessly back. "Whatever you want to do."

\---

What Tom wanted to do, it transpired, was eat waffles and drink coffee while Pete drunk coffee and remembered fondly the days he could eat waffles. Tom had the waitress put extra whipped cream on them and everything.

Pete had no idea Tom could be so mean, and told him so as Tom shoveled them into his mouth with rather spiteful enthusiasm.

Tom paused and looked up at him innocently. "Huh?"

Pete waved at the empty place in front of him. "Vegan."

Tom's eyes widened, "Shit. I forgot."

Tom being kind of forgetful was far more in line with Pete's recollection of the kid. He shrugged. "It's cool."

"Why didn't you say anything before I started stuffing my face with delicious things you're too principled to eat?"

Pete laughed. "Because that would have been kind of shitty of me, I guess. It was my choice."

Tom nodded. "But there's no reason for other people to rub your face in it."

Pete smiled. "You're my favorite kind of non-vegan."

Tom raised a victory fist. Then he leaned in conspiratorially, "I think you'll find, soon enough, that I ought to be your favorite kind of everything."

Pete chose to scoff, and dump some salt into Tom's hair, and completely ignored the part of his brain that was suddenly terrified that Tom was already right.

\---

They spent the rest of the day wandering around the city, because Tom kept assuring Pete that it was _vital_ that he reconnect with his city. And his city's people.

Despite this crucial need, he refused to call Jon, or his parents, or anyone else who knew his name.

Pete only realized this was happening that evening, after they had walked everywhere ever, and were eating pizza on Pete's couch.

Pete said, "Oh, so we should call JWalk, he's got like, another kitten, I think. Gerard may have given it to him? Sometimes Gerard does stuff that necessitates apology kittens, from what I gather. Anyway, he'll want to introduce you, and show you a million pictures of it, and probably hug you and stuff. You guys do that sort of thing, right?"

Tom wasn't even looking at Pete. He was just staring at the half-empty pizza box like his life and the lives of all kittens everywhere depended on it.

"Um, no?" Pete ventured.

Tom shook his whole self. "No." Then he looked up, startled out of his revere by his own voice. "If uh, that's okay."

Pete nodded, and then thought about it. He was pretty sure Tom had said he called Jon first, but that might have been the being half-asleep talking. Either way, "What were you planning on doing? If I hadn't picked up my phone."

Tom smiled, forced nonchalance stretching a little too tightly across his teeth. "Keep calling?"

Pete chewed on a bite of pizza before saying, "Good thing I like my phone."

Tom nodded like this made sense, and went back to eating.

\---

They went on like that for the next three days. Tom woke up at disturbingly early hours and made Pete get up too through the diabolical application of fresh coffee and being kind of clumsy in the kitchen, and they spent their mornings wandering around Pete's neighborhood while Tom took pictures of anything Pete pointed at and said, "that." It was fucking cold, but Tom assured Pete that was the _point_ , and Pete knew what it was like to be away from Chicago. He knew about missing the seasons, so he didn't do more the perfunctory complaining. Tom, who at a young age had either been a terrible influence on or a tragic victim of Jon Walker, tried to leave Pete's apartment in flip-flops and had to be forcibly stopped every morning. After their walk (Tom always tried to insist it was a _sojourn_ , but Pete really didn't think that word applied, no matter how much cooler it sounded) they always picked up subs from the truck across from the place Pete got his paper, and then went into hermit mode for the rest of the day, watching the Discovery Channel and napping. Pete really loved napping, and was deeply gratified to discover that Tom loved it just as much as he did. Not even Brendon was as up for Pete to say, "Fuck it, I'm exhausted. I'm lying on you because you're closer than that pillow, and warmer too." Brendon always checked with Ryan, who often claimed Brendon for his own purposes, while Tom just grunted tiredly and shifted so they were both more comfortable.

It was kind of awesome.

But it was also weird, and made no sense, and sometimes Tom would get quiet, and he'd stare at his hands for long stretches of time until Pete touched him, or said his name, and then he'd turn his face up and smile, going back to talking like nothing had happened.

It kind of made Pete's heart hurt, and that kind of thing was supposed to be reserved for Patrick's sad face and Mikey's special blank face that meant he was actually sad, and that weird breathing thing Ryan did when he was too angry to make real noises. He knew what to do in each of those cases, but he didn't have any idea how to help Tom.

On the third night, it all kind of fell in on itself.

Patrick had been calling him the whole day, and it was Patrick, so it wasn't like Pete didn't answer, exactly, he just let the calls go to voicemail, listened to them, and then texted Patrick back. It wasn't completely out of the the normal scope of his behavior, so Patrick's calls were only mildly annoyed, not panicked, but each time it was like a prick in the cellophane that seemed to surround them, just barely keeping the world at bay.

By dinner, pizza as always, Tom was having five minute zone-outs, and it was making Pete's skin itch.

He finally got up, with plans to get the bottle of whatever Joe had left there out of his liquor cabinet, which was actually just the drawer under his sink, but when he announced this to Tom, he went rigid and said, "Don't do that." His voice was steady, but his hands shook.

Pete froze in his tracks. Shit.

He got back to Tom as fast as he was physically able, crowding him on the couch, pressing his knee against Tom's. It seemed to steady him, and he said, not looking at Pete, "I can't. I'm trying not to do that. Anymore."

Pete nodded, trying to remember the way you were supposed to handle something like this. Trying to just be a person. "Okay."

Tom sighed. "I'm not sure that I. I'm just trying not to."

Pete put his hand on Tom's knee. It kept twitching up and down, but at least his hand was along for the ride. It felt like something.

"Being out, this last tour, things started to roll with the band and it was just... it was like it was never gonna stop. When we were out on two, three week tours, when we were still coming back all the time, being home, being with people who really knew us, it was okay to get crazy on the road. It didn't matter if I kind of... lost myself to it. But things had been getting so intense, so constant, it'd been over a year since I've even been back and I just, I was starting to feel like I wasn't even me anymore. Like I didn't recognize myself and the music we were playing, it was good music - but it didn't have anything to do with me. I didn't see myself in that either. Nothing was even wrong, really, it was fucking great, we were _making it_. It just didn't seem like I had a reason _not_ to, and I fucked myself up."

He sounded hallowed out, saying it. There was nothing of the boy who woke him up with big smiles and strong coffee left in his eyes.

The whole thing was making Pete sick to his stomach, but mostly, "What about your band? They didn't," he bit back the rest of the question. Way to fucking salt the wound. Jesus.

Tom just shook his head. "It wasn't their fault, they tried. Just not in ways that did any good."

Pete really liked Bill. But at the moment he pretty much wanted to punch him in the face. A lot.

"So you left?" Pete hazarded, hoping it had happened that way.

Tom laughed. "After they kicked me out, sure."

Pete's hand tightened its hold on Tom's knee.

Tom stayed where he was.

\---

After that, Tom pretty much clammed up, and Pete was no fucking good at dealing with real shit, aside from being a master at making his own problems seem worse, which wasn't exactly what the situation called for. So he did all he could think of. He got up, drained the alcohol into the sink, and then went back to sit with Tom, silent at his side, until Tom sighed and said he was going to try to sleep.

Pete left him to it, and once he was reasonably sure Tom was asleep, he called Mikey.

He would have called Patrick, but Patrick was his comfort, and he wasn't there yet, he needed help first, or he'd end up babbling and freaking out just so Patrick could soothe him, and that wouldn't do anything for Tom.

Mikey didn't answer though, Gerard did, and Pete could have kicked himself for not thinking of Gerard in the first place.

Gerard said, "Pete?" Because apparently opening with "Mikeymikeyway I need your help," and then lapsing into silence kind of gave him away.

He made a noise that he hoped Gerard would interpret as an affirmative.

"Mikey's not here, man, what do you need help with?"

Gerard was kind of Pete's hero like that. He had to be fought every inch of the way to believe it for himself, but he always believed there was a way to help other people, and he was consistently hellbent on trying to find it.

"Tom."

Gerard took quite awhile to take this one in. "Jon's Tom? Tom Conrad?"

"Jon's Tom, yeah."

He was almost certain he could hear Gerard's hand flapping. "What... I thought he was in a band or something, and they were... somewhere? Jon keeps track, and like, sends stuff. Postcards? But I don't know exactly - do you want me to ask--"

"Gee. Slow down. I know where he is, that's not... he's in my apartment."

"Oh. So what's the problem?"

Pete swallowed. "I don't. You can't tell Jon. Not yet."

"Pete," Gerard began reproachfully. "I'm not saying I wouldn't try. But I don't always mean to tell Jon things, you know? Spencer is... well, they know how to make me." Gerard didn't exactly sound upset about this fact.

"This is important."

"That's usually why they make me tell them."

"Look this is - when you - when you were getting clean. What did you need?" No other way than to say it.

"Oh."

"I'm sorry to--"

"No, hey. It's okay. I don't... there wouldn't have been much point in going through that if I didn't - I'd be happy to help, is what I'm saying. But it's..." He sighed. "Just treat him like a person. Don't sugar coat shit, don't coddle him. Make him get help, like, the kind that involves people who know what the fuck they're doing, cause you can be some things, if you care about him, but he'll need people with different interests in mind. That's what Mikey did for me, that's... what helped me. It's gonna be different, cause he's different, we all are, right? But more than anything, I wanted people to look at me like I was still capable of being real, of taking care of myself. Like my fuck-ups didn't make me useless forever."

"Gee, you're not--"

"I know. I mean, work in progress, but I mostly know. I had people, they showed me. Pushed me. I needed that. To know there was a reason to try, people who were counting on me getting myself back together."

Pete nodded. "I can do that."

"Pete, look it's a big - if you sign on for this, you can't - he has to know he can count on you to - to need him, to be there. Not just for right now. Is it, I mean, it's a lot to promise. To take on."

Pete just said, "I could stand to be needed."

\---

When he woke up the next morning, Tom was sitting in the chair in the corner of his room, watching Pete. His camera was cradled in his lap. Pete scrubbed his face and managed to suppress his shout of alarm.

Tom smiled. "You talk in your sleep."

Pete nodded, because that seemed to be the thing to do. "I've heard that."

"I like it, you say nice things."

That kind of surprised him. "Guess you picked a good night."

Tom shrugged. "You say sweet stuff most nights."

Pete chose to take that comment as nonchalantly as Tom said it. It made him think though. "I guess I haven't really had a nightmare, since you've been here."

Tom grinned. "You just needed someone to make sure they couldn't get to you."

Pete wanted to just smile back, but Tom looked so tired, underneath it all. "That's why you're always up so early, huh? Cause you never really go to sleep?"

Tom shrugged. "Sometimes. For a couple hours."

"Why didn't you wake me?" Pete wasn't a notoriously good sleeper himself. It'd been a weird couple of nights, having Tom there, always falling almost instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"You seemed like you needed it. And I always found stuff to do."

Stuff like watch Pete sleep, and keep his nightmares away. Apparently. "You need it too." He pushed himself up, trying to hold in last night's resolve. "We'll nap for longer this afternoon."

Tom looked at him sharply. "I'm staying?"

Pete scrunched his eyebrows. "Why wouldn't you be?"

Tom looked away. "I just figured. After last night. You'd want to pass me on to Jon or something. I'm not your responsibility."

"So why'd you call me then?"

Tom looked pained, but he answered. "Cause I wanted to pretend for awhile."

Pete got up, and walked over to him. He put his hand on Tom's face so Tom would look up at him. "Good thing I'm a big fan of Peter Pan."

Tom raised his eyebrows, and Pete leaned down for a second allowing his lips to brush Tom's forehead. "Wishing makes it so."

\---

It wasn't a plan, exactly, certainly not by conventional standards, but Pete wasn't going to be the next person to tell Tom his problems were too difficult to be borne.

Still, he was also a man who was deeply familiar with his own limitations. "I want you to stay here, as long as you want," he began, first things first, as he paced around his bedroom.

"It might be awhile."

Pete kept pacing, but looked at him while he did it, "I'm good with that."

"Pete, you don't - man, I mean you barely even know me anymore--"

"Hey. What did I just say?"

"You want me to stay?" Tom looked uncertain. Which was fair, Pete had said kind of a lot of things quite recently.

That was the main gist, though. "That's right. Look, I like having you here. It's not a sacrifice. You are the best person I have ever co-napped with, and I look for that in a cohabitant. Also, you make excellent coffee. And your stupid shoes make me smile."

Tom's answering smile was pleased. "I like your smile."

Pete laughed. "And see, you just say shit like that. Makes me feel way less awkward when I can't stop myself from doing the same, or worse."

Tom nodded. He was clearly already on that page. Pete wondered if he had always been that smart, and Pete had just missed it before Tom showed up and made him see.

"So I'm keeping you, tough luck if you don't like it. But even though he doesn't know it, I'm sure the fact that you're here and he's not showing you pictures of his cat is totally making Jon sad somewhere. I can't have that."

Tom said, "All right."

Pete kept going, "We'll call him tonight. And then we'll see about... I don't know. Getting some more of your stuff in here, that kind of thing. Set you up a bit."

"I have most of my stuff back in my parents' place," Tom contributed.

"Okay, sweet."

"Pete." His tone made Pete stop pacing, finally. "You really don't have to do this."

Pete nodded seriously. He could only hope that the fact that he meant it showed on his face when he said, "That's part of why I want to."

Tom held up his camera, and took a picture.

\---

They ended up not calling Jon, but simply taking the subway to his apartment instead.

Against all odds, he was actually home. He buzzed them up when Pete said, "JWalk, dude, let us in, it's fucking cold out here," but still stared in shock when he took in Tom's presence at Pete's side.

He stood in front of the door gawking at them so long a tiny gray thing escaped between his ankles and darted down the hall.

Pete exclaimed, "Motherfucker!" and chased after it, leaving Jon to shout, "What the fuck, assface," while pulling Tom into a crushing hug.

They were still locked into it when Pete finally caught the escapee, deposited her into the pocket of his hoodie, and got back to the doorway.

They let go, and Tom strayed back to Pete's side. Jon noted this with interest. Pete silently wished Jon was less observant.

They all went inside, and Pete let the kitten out of his pocket.

"Which one is that?" He asked, making conversation.

Jon's eyes went all soft and fond for a second. "That's Dusty, as in Springfield, as in Gerard named her."

Tom scoffed, smiling. "You love Dusty Springfield."

Jon shrugged, and scooped her up. He scratched her head between her ears and she started to purr with astonishing volume given her size. Pete was suitably impressed.

"How long have you been back in town?" Jon asked, no longer looking nearly so filled with adoration.

Tom shuffled his feet. "A couple days."

Jon nodded tersely. "A couple like five?"

Tom's eyes widened.

Jon shook his head. "Guess who called me?"

"Shit."

Jon's shoulders slumped; that was it for his outrage. Pete was impressed he'd held onto it that long. Tom did downtrodden and remorseful really well. It was all in the shoulders.

"Bill calls me, all freaked out cause you just disappeared after they gave you the news, and I had to tell him if you weren't okay I was going come after him with a bat, so really, after that, it would have been awesome if you had actually called me, or something, to let me know you were okay. Jesus, Tommy, I was out of my mind for a good five hours. Thank god Patrick called me that same afternoon, told me where you were."

Wait, what?

"Patrick knows?" Tom demanded, eyes widening ridiculously at Pete.

Pete held up his hands. "I didn't tell him!"

Jon rolled his eyes. "No, you are both fucking idiots, and didn't tell anyone. But this is Chicago, and you guys went everywhere everyone we know goes. I'm pretty sure Brian was the one who first saw you, and then he called Patrick, who called me. Just to reiterate? You guys are fucking idiots."

They looked at each other, and together said, "We know."

\---

Jon and Tom talked for the next two hours straight while Pete listened and hovered.

Pete learned a lot of stuff doing that. Like the fact that Tom had dared them to fire him before they did, like he and Bill had stopped sleeping together about six months before the drinking started happening all the time, but that stopping with Bill had been Tom's first attempt to get control of himself, "which worked fucking _awesomely_ , obviously," and that he hadn't had a drink in 14 days.

Around the time they got to the part where Jon had his arm around Tom's shoulders and was telling him he was proud of him for coming back home when he could have just ran further away, Spencer stomped into the apartment.

The stomping seemed unrelated, because he almost passed them by, and then stopped in his tracks, doing a double take. "Seriously? _Seriously_?" he screeched.

Jon waved him off. "Easy, Spence."

Spencer was having none of it. "Easy. _Easy_. We have been worried sick about you, asshole! Even before you dropped off the face of the earth - by which I mean holed up in the seedy apartment of Pete Wentz!"

 _Hey._ "Hey!"

Spencer turned on him. " _You_ couldn't have called us? Huh?"

Pete considered backing down, because frankly, when he got like this, Spencer was kind of scary, but in the end, his answer was the truth. "No, Spencer. I couldn't."

Spencer deflated. "Fair enough." He turned back to Tom. "Are you done pretending we're not your friends?"

"I wasn't doing that." Tom said, his eyes pleading with Spencer.

Spencer's eyes softened, and he changed his question. "Are you back?"

Tom nodded. "Yeah, Spence. I'm back."

\---

They got food. Pete played with Dusty, and an orange cat he was pretty sure was named _the fifth_. Spencer seemed to like that one best, at any rate.

By which Pete meant Spencer stole it from Pete's attentions, and the cat promptly curled into an orange ball on his lap. He smiled with satisfaction and then went back to calmly lecturing Tom about how he'd be expected to come by at least three times a week, and call every day, and something about those mittens with the string holding them together that Pete just didn't get.

Tom nodded along, but finally stopped Spencer to say, "that's all fine, Spence. I want to see you guys, I came back here so that I could... well, you guys were a huge part of that. So it's all good, I'm on board. But I'm going to stay with Pete. Not here, not with my parents."

Spencer flicked his eyes over to Pete, who confirmed with a nod.

Spencer smiled; it was an old looking smile. A serious one, but he seemed to mean it. "That's good, then."

Jon had pretty much let Spencer take over since he arrived, but he spoke up after that. "We should call Gerard. Let him know what's going on."

"You didn't tell Gerard?" Pete was surprised, although Gerard's obliviousness on the phone certainly hadn't seemed feigned. Gee just really wasn't good at that sort of thing.

Spencer went a little pink. "We didn't want to worry him."

Right. "Okay. Well, sure. Tell him, tell everyone. I mean, you guys are hardly ever here. I'm guessing some of Tom's visits will be to Mikey's place, right?" Pete was aware that other people lived there. But every inch of that place felt like Mikey, smelled like him. It would always just be _Mikey's place_ to Pete.

Spencer nodded. "Right. Well. Tom, are you cool with that?" Spencer was the most together, composed person Pete knew, until he wasn't, and in the littlest moments, he would go suddenly young and vulnerable and uncertain, and Pete would believe there was enough of a person in there for Jon and Gerard together to love.

Tom raised his fist. "Can't wait to meet him."

\---

Spencer hugged Tom before he left, and said, "I missed you, you bastard," loud enough for everyone to hear. Say what you would about Spencer Smith, the kid was not shy.

Tom and Jon also hugged, just as long as they had the first time, and Tom said, "I'm gonna be better."

There was nothing but confidence in Jon's voice when he said, "I know."

\---

Tom crawled into bed with Pete that night, and, lying side by side, not quite touching, they both slept.

\---

They went to the House two days later, and Gerard hugged Pete as soon as they were near enough to each other, and it felt like an endorsement. It felt like a "good job," and made Pete feel better than anything else had since he decided to actually step up and try to be something real for Tom. He knew Jon and Spencer wouldn't be letting him keep Tom with him if they didn't think he was to be trusted, but Gerard had been through things they hadn't. He saw things differently.

Ryan was immediately wary of Tom, but he gave Pete a smile when Pete asked him to. Time and coaxing from Brendon and Jon was going to have to do the rest. Pete had no doubts in their abilities, and from the way Ryan's glare was already softening into a rueful smile by the time they were ready to leave, it was obvious he'd given up doubting them either. It made Pete feel lighter, seeing that.

Before they headed out, laden with an assortment of Ray's finest... whatever, Mikey drew Pete aside while Tom was busy putting the finishing touches on vetting Gerard, and asked, "You sure about this?"

Pete nodded, and because it was Mikey, he could be sure he was telling the truth when he said, "Yeah. I am."

\---

They got clothes and CDs from Tom's parents' place, and Pete held Tom's hand while he told his parents about not being in the band anymore, about his problems with drinking.

Tom started going to meetings with Gerard every Tuesday, and got a part time job working at a record store owned by a dude Mikey knew.

Patrick forgave him for being a hermit and a liar, and Pete forgave him for ratting them out to Jon and Spencer, so Pete went back to practicing with the band, and when Joe had the time, they even played some shows. Brian was too busy considering moving into an apartment with Bob to notice one of his bands had somewhat sneakily gone on a half-assed hiatus, and Mikey was a soft touch like that, and just let them get away with it.

It was almost exactly like his old life, except that in the mornings, Tom was there making coffee or watching him while he slept, and at night, he was there to rearrange the CDs Pete had bought that day or show him the pictures he'd taken of Pete while they napped the afternoon before.

Day after day, until Pete almost forgot there had been a time before it, before Tom was there.

\---

Pete wasn't really sure how Gerard, Spencer and Jon worked, but from what he gleaned, Spencer yelled a lot. Jon was quiet a lot more, and Gerard was a lot more still, and aside from the times all three of them looked abjectly miserable, they all seemed happier for it.

Still, it was three against two, as far as Pete was concerned, which was why he felt it was only right that he and Gerard form a support group.

Gerard stared at him.

"You know. For support."

"What now?"

Pete didn't at all blow his smoke into Gerard's face out of spite. That would have been totally unsupportive. "Not cause they're bad guys or anything. Just, in like, self-defense."

"Of what?"

Pete just glared at him. "You know what."

Gerard contemplated his cigarette for a long time. Finally, he put it to his lips, inhaled sharply, and said, with feeling, "Yeah."

\---

There was the obvious fact that Spencer, Jon and Tom were all young and disturbingly hot, whereas he and Gerard were both nearing the bad side of 30 and frankly hadn't taken very good care of themselves in their early 20s. And then there was the still-obvious, but less obvious on sight, reality that they were both pretty fucked-up dudes who did better on paper than in person.

There was kind of a lot riding on them being able to not act like it anymore, on their rising above it somehow, and Pete was fairly certain he wasn't the only one occasionally feeling less than up to the pressure of not completely screwing up the whole situation and the person he loved along with it. And then there was that. Loved. That word had just slipped itself into his thoughts about Tom without warning, consideration or permission. It had come attached with Tom's name, with his face called up in Pete's thoughts. He'd said the words many times before, carelessly, even exuberantly, believing he meant them. He hadn't even realized he'd been lying, not until now. Gerard's problems were different; he wasn't one to waste his words, but there was a difference between thinking you meant something and really meaning it, and Gerard knew that just as well as Pete did, now.

Mostly, for Pete, it was a shared look in their eyes. Like they were, each of them, confused by what was going on, like they didn't understand why they suddenly had these people beside them. And more than that, there was anticipation, like they were waiting for their solitude to reassert itself.

\---

Gerard never told Pete anything Tom said or did in meetings. He didn't tell Pete if Tom was going to them.

But every Tuesday they went out for lunch afterward, and Tom's eyes always seemed clearer, his hands flexed out before Pete over the table, and they looked steady, like they were doing what he wanted them to.

\---

They started sleeping together on Valentine's Day, although neither of them realized that was the case until they woke up the next morning and saw the date when Pete shuffled back into the apartment with the paper.

Pete saw it first and said, "Shit. If I'd have known I would have at least tried to make it to the bed."

Tom laughed and roped him in for a kiss. "You're romantic like that."

They didn't make it back to the bed that time either.

\---

When they had moved to Chicago, Pete had briefly entertained the notion that he was a little bit in love with Gerard. Once the drugs and the depression were stripped away, Gerard was truly something to behold. And even though at the core he and Mikey were the same, Gerard's bold enthusiasm was so startling, stood in such stark contrast to Mikey's shy and unassuming sweetness. Mikey had always just taken the shit Pete pulled on him. Gerard seemed like the kind of guy who would at least hurt Pete back.

It was the kind of thing he could admit to himself he looked for in a guy. Hell, in a girl too. Pete didn't tend to be picky.

It was just a bad enough idea that he probably would have really ran with it, if Ryan hadn't caught him thinking it, chin propped up on a hand, staring at Gee. Ryan had shaken his head and promptly hauled Pete out of the house, gotten on a bus with him and taken him across town for his favorite vegan nachos. He'd looked at Pete across the booth, and said, "Mikey was always the one you loved like that. Don't confuse it now."

Pete thought about the first time he'd ever met Mikey, bodies pushed together in that tiny, crowded club. Thought about the way Mikey had stuck out this perfect hand and said, "I'm Gerard Way's little brother. Mikey," and promptly let it go.

Luckily, Ryan was smart about Pete, smart about looking after what was his.

It was only later, with Tom, that Pete realized that Ryan wasn't only protecting Mikey, or Gerard. In taking him out like that, stopping him from making a mistake that would have hurt himself most of all, Ryan had been letting Pete know he was Ryan's, too.

\---

When they fought, it wasn't quiet, it wasn't clean or simple. It was loud and messy and they broke a lot of shit. Two clocks, a plate and this little ceramic duck Pete had gotten at a flea market were among the fatalities of that winter alone. But that was always gonna be Pete, no matter how much he hated it afterward, no matter how stupid he knew it was the second the anger drained out of him. He was who he was, for all that he wasn't quite the angry, depression-obsessed person he had once been. There were parts of himself he just wasn't growing out of, and Tom, big-smiled and beautiful-picture-taking Tom, knew how to push right back.

\---

Every night they shared a cigarette just before going to sleep. They stood in the kitchen, looking out the window onto the street, watching the cars go by and passing the cigarette back and forth until it was gone.

\---

Spencer glared at him sometimes, which Pete would have basically considered par for the course, since Spencer's defaults were a glare, a protective glare, and a smile that could be seen from space. But these were not just his habitual glares, the ones that were actually just his normal face. These tended to be of the protective variety, and they were always directed at him when Tom was around. Even more worrying, occasionally he caught Jon looking at him, not as overtly suspicious as Spencer, but a little sad maybe.

Which was just... it was fucking unfair. Pete was right _in_ this thing, he was with Tom every step of the way. And he was even fairly certain that Tom knew it.

But Jon's worried face was nothing to ignore, so he finally made himself ask. One evening while they were rewatching Steve Zissou and discussing how cool it would be if crayon seahorses really existed, Pete just stopped mid conversation and said, "You're happy here, right?"

Tom made a face. Pete was familiar with this one. It was his _confused and mildly upset about the direction this conversation was going_ face. It usually happened with other people. Pete absolutely preferred it that way.

He tried to think of a way to backpedal, but quickly gave up. Tom didn't let things go, even if he was the one who started out not wanting to talk about them. So Pete soldiered on, "I guess, well. We don't talk about it very much, anymore. You being here, staying here. We just... do it. You just stay. And I am so - I'm happy about it. I don't... I _really_ don't want you to leave. I just wanted to make sure that, like, you knew... um, that."

Tom just said, "You hung my pictures on the wall."

Pete blinked. "What?"

Tom nodded at the row of pictures by the window in the living room - a shot of Pete's hands, folded on the table of the diner they always went, a flock of sparrows taking flight in the early morning, a Polaroid of Pete and Gerard smoking and leaning into each other against the cold on the steps in front of Mikey's place. Even though he couldn't see them, Pete could think of others. The shot of the bridge Tom had taken at night, all swirling street lights and dark water, that hung on their bathroom wall. The series of their friends sleeping, mostly feet and half covered faces, sometimes indistinguishable, but not in the case of his favorite - Gerard and Spencer and Jon passed out all over each other, looking nothing but united, the same in their sleep, that were up all over the bedroom.

Pete shrugged. "I like them. And you live here too. Why shouldn't I have? I mean, it wasn't like... _we_ put them up."

Tom smiled. "Yeah. We did."

Pete tried to think it through. He wished he was faster, wished things made sense to him like they seemed to for other people. But that wasn't usually a problem with Tom. Maybe just because he never pushed, always just waited, smiling patiently, until Pete understood.

Like always, it took him awhile, but he got there. "You feel at home here."

Tom nodded, and kept his eyes fixed on Pete. "Home."

\---

Pete sighed and took another drag of his cigarette. "Why are they smarter than us?"

Gerard shrugged and waved a hand pointlessly. "I don't know."

Pete glared at Gerard for a minute until he remembered that this was about solidarity. They were united in their pain. "Doesn't seem fair, though, does it?"

Gerard stubbed out his cigarette. "Nope."

\---

The seasons changed, and they still went for breakfast every Friday, the anniversary of Tom's arrival in Chicago. And after breakfast they still spent the whole day walking, taking pictures, and then cocooning on the couch, watching the Discovery channel and dozing on each other until the sun went down.

\---

When the spring session started at the university, Tom started auditing a photography class with Jon. Pete liked it best when Tom came home from a class talking a mile a minute about a new technique he had learned. But his definite second favorite was watching Tom chew on a pencil and stare at pictures spread out on the kitchen floor, muttering to himself while Pete loitered around pretending to be looking for food until Tom made a noise and caught Pete's hand as he meandered past, tugging him down onto the floor beside him and ordering him to, quote, "find the good ones." The problem with that was that they all pretty much were. When he'd told Tom so, he'd make a face and, if he was feeling stuck, he'd tell Pete he was a loser, but if he was happy with his work that day, he'd just grin, and let Pete kiss the smile off his lips until Pete was smiling too.

In June, Tom started working on putting a show together with Jon and a few other people he had met in the class. He was busy all the time, sleeping less, out of the house at odd hours, but he always kept in touch, never went a day without talking to, and--if possible--making fun of Pete somehow. When he was out of the house all day, he'd leave weird little booby-traps around the apartment for Pete to find, and he'd make Pete recount the whole reveal when they saw each other again just so that he could cackle triumphantly like he would have if he'd been there to see it happen. For all that he was busy, and there was a lot of pressure on him to put everything together, to make it work, it didn't seem to stress him out, not the way that Pete was worried it would, and he tried to make himself stop watching Tom so carefully, like he was expecting him to slip. Or maybe just slip away. It was a shitty set of expectations to have, and Pete felt doubly guilty about it since Tom had done nothing but stay on his feet, stay on the track he put himself on, with Pete, never having a drink or even reaching for one. Never heading for the door without telling Pete where he was going, when he'd be back. He'd done nothing to make Pete doubt him, not on any conceivable level. But Pete was too used to disappointment, to habituated by his own fuck-ups, and he couldn't help but worry even though it felt like a betrayal.

Two weeks before the show, Tom met Pete after a practice and pulled him by the hand halfway across town so they could sit in the sunshine and eat chilly fries washed down with lemonade.

Tom held his face up to the sun for a long moment before turning back to Pete and saying, "I think I'm going to stop going to meetings."

Pete coughed lemonade out of his nose. He pounded his chest with a fist while Tom rubbed his back.

"Are you sure?" He managed eventually.

"Yeah, I think so. I'm not sorry I've put the time into it I have, I think I've learned a lot. It was a good experience. But one of the things I learned, being with those people, seeing their troubles and where the drinking fit into that for them... it made me realize, I don't think that was my problem. I mean, the alcohol was definitely a problem, but if it was a problem like it is for them, like it is for Gee, I'd want it because I wanted it, does that make sense? I didn't drink because I wanted a drink, like... as an end in itself. And it's an escape for lots of people, that's still alcoholism as far as I understand it, I'm not saying it isn't. But before, being on tour, I hated my life, and I wasn't drinking to get away from it, drinking was just one more of the parts I hated about it. It's not an excuse, lots of people don't let it get inside them the way I did, but it was just everywhere... all the time. It was just what you did, after a show, in the time between shows. I got all caught up in this cycle, this merry-go-round, and I had to step off of it, and not drinking anymore was a big part of it, but it was just a piece, do you see? I had to clear my head of that to recognize all the other things that were wrong. The ways I was settling, giving up on myself, on what really mattered to _me_ \- not just the people who happened to be around me. I was lonely, all the fucking time. I didn't have what I have now, I didn't have people I trusted to talk to about anything, to be there for me at any, every, moment I needed. I didn't think I could have that, but more than that I hated myself for not trying. It felt _weak_ to me. But coming here... being with you, I don't recognize that person anymore, those impulses, and I'm glad. I'm not going to start drinking again, I don't want to - not just that I don't _want_ to want to. I really just don't. There's so much more for me to _be_ here, I'm not wasting any more time."

Pete swallowed, trying to give himself a minute to take it all in. Trying to sort through the layers of his own reaction.

"I'm glad you're happier now, I am, but what if... what if things start getting bad again, or... fuck, I don't know, I want you to do what's right for you, I don't want to say you don't know what that is, but if it's... if I'm the one who, I just don't think--"

Tom raised a hand, silencing him. "Pete. Steady."

He tried to laugh. Just put it bluntly, just say it. This was Tom. "I guess I just don't really see myself as someone who's good enough to stave off depression. I'm usually kind of good for the opposite. And I get that we work differently - I mean, I don't _get it_ but I _see;_ we're different, you and me. I sleep and I write and I just plain _think_ better, when you're around, but you're so - I'm just not sure why you think life with me is such a good alternative. Like I'm some kind of a - like I'm worth--" Because see, Pete was in it. For as long as Tom wanted. He just had never really expected it to be anything like this long. He held onto every day, because every extra day with Tom was a gift, but always, always, he'd been waiting, at the back of his mind, for it to end.

Tom shook his head. "I've been in love with you since I was sixteen, did you not already know that?" He said it like it wasn't that big a deal. Like he expected that Pete did.

Pete stared. He may have been gaping, he wasn't really sure.

"I didn't. No." He was shocked by the sound of his own voice.

Tom's smile was indulgent, albeit mildly surprised. "Well, I have. I mean, why did you think Spencer and Jon were always so protective of me when you're around?"

Pete was definitely gaping, there was no doubt about it now. He tried to wave some air into his mouth. "I just... they're Spencer and Jon. They're protective guys. And you're theirs."

Tom smiled, proud. "I am. But it's more than that. Growing up in the scene like we did, I always looked up to you. Not just for your music, but how you played, how much heart you put into it. How totally you gave yourself up to your shows. Then, when we were a little older, and I actually got to know you..." he shrugged, "I loved you all the more. The stupid shit you'd say, the even dumber shit you'd do. Make me feel like it was okay, like it was _good_ even, just to be who I was. Like that was all any of us had to be. You taught me that. I kind of forgot it for awhile, along the way, but, I mean... being with you was always the thing I couldn't have, always the top of the list of things I wasn't brave enough to try for. And I realize that's putting kind of an awkward and scary amount of responsibility on your shoulders, and believe me, I would be pretty fucking miserable if you decided you were getting tired of me after all, but it wasn't just that I wasn't with you. It was that I didn't try. Didn't put myself out there. I did it with Jon and Spencer too. They were closer to me than family, but I let myself slip away from them, let their feelings for each other be my excuse for falling out of touch, because I was afraid to fight for a place among them, afraid if I didn't shut them out first, I'd be the one who got left. I did that for so long, running from things I was afraid I might fail at, might not succeed. When all the success started happening with the Academy, for awhile I could just close my eyes and pretend it was mine, even though it was all built on songs I didn't help write and experiences I'd only watched from the sidelines. But I got away from that, because it was taking me apart, taking me from all the parts of myself that were real. I got out, and I'm a part of things now. Even if they get screwed up, even if not everything works out, I'm trying now, I'm going after the things I really want. I'm taking pictures, I'm writing, I don't know where any of it is going, but I _love_ it, I'll keep trying until I find out a way to take myself somewhere with it that feels right. And I'd really, really like it if, wherever I end up, you'd be there too. I'd worry more about putting that pressure on you, I would, except the things you seem afraid of always seem to revolve more around me going away, not how much I want to stay."

Pete grasped out and found Tom's hand, digging his nails into his palm. The words came out of him the same way, no time or need to think, "I want you to stay. Always."

Tom squeezed Pete's hand, and smiled like he believed it was true. He titled up his chin, and raised his glass to Pete. "I'll drink to that."

Pete laughed, because there were jokes they only dared make with each other, and that was one. He held his glass out in response, and their fingers and glasses touched.

Pete could see the white of Tom's teeth in his smile, and the lemonade sparkled in the summer sun.

\---

Pete called Tom that later that afternoon, when Tom was back at work and he was riding the L back to their apartment. Tom picked up after one ring and Pete said, "So hey. I love you, too."

Tom didn't laugh aloud, but Pete could hear the smile in his voice. Better, he believed him when Tom let out a slow breath and said, "I know."

the end


	5. I can see your house from here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Keeps Coda (Gerard/Spencer/Jon)

Gerard spent most of his time awake lately being frankly amazed by his life. He looked around and Mikey was smiling, tucked under Ray's arm and looking like he finally knew he belonged there. Was needed there. He saw Ryan and Brendon laughing, holding themselves comfortably, confidently, no longer shielding each other with every movement, and he almost didn't recognize them. Couldn't place them in connection with the small, scared boys he had found clinging to the corners of that school. Not even in Brendon's best moments, when he would close his eyes and sing and Gerard could see him going to another place in his mind, not even then did that Brendon come close to touching the person he was now. A person filled with music, with peace. And it was in Ryan's face whenever he looked at Brendon, the same contentment, but more than that, a incredulous pride to have been a part of that, to still be a part of it. They were his family, each of them, and they were safe together, right where he needed them, right where he knew where to find them and where they knew to find him. It was home the way no place had been since he and Mikey had spent a year living out of a van their grandmother had given them, traveling the country together, seeing where their whims might take them.

And then there was Spencer, and Jon, and they looked at him like he was theirs, like they were his, they smiled at him and were patient with him, and never let him disappear into his head where they couldn't find him, bring him back to them. He had never let himself hope, and yet, against his worst efforts, they remained. For all that he had never expected to have them in the first place, looking back he couldn't even imagine how he had functioned without Spencer's temper and his smile, equally as quick, equally as commanding. Without the sweet, goofy side he held so close that only the luckiest of few ever got to see it. Didn't know how he got through a day without Jon with his steadying calm, his humor, gentle but just edged with the dry mocking that always seemed designed particularly to make Ryan smile, to keep everyone together, in on the joke. Jon with the feelings he expressed through his pictures, his songs. All of that, all that Jon and Spencer were, together and apart, filled up Gerard's life the way nothing, not even Mikey, and their family and home, had ever quite managed before.

His life was happy, it was full, like it had never been, like he had never let himself hope it might be.

The problem was that he missed them. Whenever they weren't there. And what he did have made him greedy for more, and he wanted them with him. It was good, what they had, the place they'd carved out for him. It was better than he'd hoped for. So much better. But it made him hungry, left him wanting.

He talked about it with Pete, because somehow, somewhere along the line, Pete had become the person he talked to about this sort of thing.

Maybe it was just because Pete understood, had the same fears if for different reasons. But it was also because, for all the times Pete would just shrug in resigned solidarity and say, "I know, man," there would be other moments, like this one, and he'd snap his fingers and say, "I know this one!"

Gerard eyed him, not saying Pete didn't, not yet, but careful.

"Ask them to move in with you." Pete sounded completely confident.

Gerard was less so, "That's a lot to ask, we've only--"

Pete shook his head. "Ask, Gee. Believe me. Asking? It's just as important as giving."

Gerard thought about all the times Spencer would look at Jon, waiting for his cue, just a smile and a slight incline of the head, and then tell Gerard exactly what to do, where to move, how. Nothing, nothing, made him feel more wanted. Nothing gave him a better chance of believing he was going to be kept.

"Ask." Testing out the word.

"Give them a chance to see they're not the only one's wanting."

If you'd have told him 8 years ago, when Mikey was quietly collecting the pieces of himself that Pete had left behind, Gerard never would have believed it. But Pete was actually a pretty smart guy.

\---

He gathered them together to ask, because they all lived there together. It affected everyone.

He said, "I want to ask Jon and Spencer to move in. What do you guys think?"

Brendon and Ray high-fived. Ryan and Mikey leaned into each other, sharing a knowing smile.

"Is that a yes?"

Ryan tucked his chin onto Mikey's shoulder, and Mikey stretched out his legs, happy like a cat would be. Looking at them together, he couldn't even think about separating it out when he thought, "little brother."

It could have been either of them who spoke, "That's a yes, Gee."

\---

Later, as he was passing through the kitchen, Ryan appeared out of nowhere, like he did, and said, "Just make sure you have good reasons, Gee. I mean, I know you have them - but have them ready. Otherwise Spence'll bristle."

Gerard knew. But he appreciated that Ryan was there to remind him. He patted his pocket. "I've got a list."

Ryan clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man."

\---

The list was actually more of a flowchart, with some diagrams. Well, they were mostly labeled doodles, trying anticipate what he might say to given responses, testing out reactions. It was just a stupid a sheet of paper ripped from a notebook, but he studied it frequently, making additions and muttering to himself over the next few days. He spent so much time trying to perfect his plan and plotting in corners that he accidentally forgot to call Spencer or Jon for three days, and might have gone on even longer if they hadn't simply shown up on the porch on the first truly warm day that spring, wearing t-shirts and matching glares.

Spencer had his hands on his hips, which were cocked in that special way that let Gerard know exactly how much he had screwed up by a matter of degree. This time he had screwed up pretty bad.

Jon's face, pale underneath his frown, was just as damning.

Gerard took one more desperate glance at his paper and then folded it quickly, shoving it into a pocket.

Spencer cast a glance at Jon, who scrubbed his face roughly but nodded, and Spencer ordered flatly, "Explain."

Gerard hadn't planned for it to happen this way, usually in his plan there was ice cream and walking somewhere Jon could take pictures and Spencer could quietly mock people to butter them up first, but he couldn't let them down any further today, couldn't give them any explanation but the real one.

In defiance of the flowchart, he blurted out, "I want you to move in with me," which was totally supposed to come after, "I love you both so much," and "I know I'm kind of a lot of work, and I don't make it seem like I'm actually worth it, always doubting, never putting my share back in, but I need you. I need you and I want you to need me. I want you to be able to depend on me like I depend on you. Let me try."

He wasn't sure how much of that they could fill in by the desperately hopeful look on his face, but Spencer's hands actually dropped from his hips, and the glares slid from both their faces.

"I don't - Jon--" Spencer stammered, hands reaching out wildly. Jon caught them, pulled Spencer closer, nosed his left temple.

"Hey, shh," Jon murmured. Gerard watched in admiration, in love, as Spencer settled.

Jon, satisfied with his work, turned to Gerard. "You mean that?" His tone sounded the same as Spencer's had at the beginning, held the same demand that he tell the truth.

Gerard stood up, took a few steps down towards them. "I mean it." He closed his eyes and tried to remember how he wanted to say it. There had been so many steps, so many avenues, but in the end it all boiled down to one thing, "I need it."

They stared at him, and he tried to give them something more. "I need you. Both of you. So much."

When Spencer finally moved, made any kind of a reaction at all, it was to pinch the bridge of his nose and shake his head. "Avoiding us for three days is your way of prepping us for a move-in proposal?" He sounded exasperated, pissed, covering for the things Gerard wasn't suppose to hear. Fear left over from Gerard's period of silence, reckless hope that he might mean it, no matter what he'd done before.

Jon said nothing, just held out like the stubborn fucker he was. Gerard hoped Jon's patience was built at least partly out of a belief that he wouldn't disappoint them forever, that in the end he would prove worthy of them.

He thought of ways of trying to explain, and realized it was better to show than just to tell, so he reached into his pocket and dug out the paper, holding it out to them. "I got lost, I wanted to say it right, wanted to make sure you'd know I meant it. I kind of... got caught up in the details, I guess? Forgot the big picture?"

"The one you shut us out of?" Spencer snapped, but most of the heat was out of his voice now, his frown was fighting the corners of lips, threatening to turn into a smile.

Jon took the paper from Gerard, and they unfolded it together, inspecting it carefully. Spencer got less than halfway down the page before a loud laugh escaped him and his hand flew up, clapping over his mouth. It wasn't his usual laugh, but Gerard knew it. It was the one that sometimes came when he was happy, shocked and too happy, standing in for tears.

Jon crumbled the bottom of the paper, he was gripping it so tight.

"We need you too," he said eventually, looking at Gerard beseechingly. "You make us whole, you know that, don't you?"

Gerard looked at them together, looked at them the way he finally knew how, knew how to see that no matter how close they got, there was always a gap between them, a place that was his.

"I know that. I just want it all the time." He swallowed. "Please?"

Spencer's hand was off his mouth, there was no hiding his grin now. Jon's was smaller, but just as bright.

That was his answer, but he caught his breath a little when Spencer said, "One condition though."

He raises his eyebrows and Jon finished Spencer's thought, holding up the paper, "We're getting thing framed, and hanging it on our bedroom wall, so we can all remember why we're all there together."

Gerard thought of the last box on the chart, the one all the arrows and compilations eventually led to. Because we love each other.

He'd managed to say it right after all.


End file.
